


Choose your Faces Wisely

by cyankelpie



Series: Ineffable Rivalry [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aziraphale is the only smart one so he has the least information, Banter, Bees?, Board Games, Body Swaps, Broadway, Crowley and Aziraphale are bad at their jobs, Gabriel and Beelzebub stationed on Earth, Interdimensional phone calls, M/M, Misunderstandings, More Angst than originally intended, New York City, Obligatory mutual pining, Post-Apocalypse, Romance-repulsed Gabriel, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), The dumbest car chase of all time, crowley bakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: After Gabriel and Beelzebub thwart Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley team up to get them off the hook, and realize that they both much prefer Earth to their home offices. Crowley hatches a scheme that will let him stay there for good, and give Beelzebub a chance at their dream job. It's win-win. Nothing can go wrong.Everything goes wrong.(AU where Gabriel and Beelzebub were stationed on Earth since the beginning instead of Aziraphale and Crowley)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Rivalry [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579288
Comments: 121
Kudos: 71
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. A New Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> It's the sequel that nobody asked for! I just like this universe too much to leave it alone.
> 
> This directly follows [Ineffable Rivalry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235832/chapters/47957824), and probably won't make a lot of sense without that context. In summary: Gabriel and Beelzebub are the Earthside agents of their respective sides, and developed a rivalry that, over the years turned into grudging respect, and then friendship. After they teamed up and stopped the apocalypse, Crowley (Prince of Hell) and Aziraphale (from the heavenly records department) were sent to Earth to figure out how to kill them, since they are evidently immune to hellfire and holy water. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale like the idea of their coworkers dying, so instead they plan to figure out the traitors' side of the story and spin the whole treason thing into something that doesn't merit execution. Beelzebub keeps bees and hates puns. Gabriel is disgusted by food. Michael is the Worst Boss.
> 
> This is going to be pretty different from Ineffable Rivalry, in that it's less historical banter and thwarting and more interpersonal drama and wacky hijinks. I headcanon Gabriel as aromantic and romance-repulsed, so don't expect any romantic ineffable bureaucracy shipping, but do expect lots of pining from the ineffable husbands.
> 
> I promise the title will make sense in a few chapters. Hope you enjoy whatever this nonsense is!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale are enjoying Earth so much that they forget to actually do their jobs. Crowley comes up with an idea to help with this.

Aziraphale was rather glad that the Earth had not been destroyed.

It was blasphemy to think such things, of course, so he was always careful not to think them too loudly. The Earth’s survival flew in the face of the Great Plan and the war that heaven and hell had been building towards for millennia, and the traitors’ activities had thrown both celestial realms into absolute chaos. But Aziraphale was not in heaven, thank God, nor was he in hell, and now he got to enjoy all the pleasures of Earth that he had missed during his six thousand years trapped in the records department.

How had he ever managed up there, endlessly filing and cross-referencing forms, only taking a break every couple of centuries to nip down to Earth for a quick snack? Earth had far more to offer than just food, he was discovering. Since he had last been down here, so many more books had been written, and so much more music (hell had, unfortunately, claimed nearly all of the good composers). Plus there was good wine, and fascinating architecture, and so many new inventions that it made his head spin.

The company wasn’t bad, either.

He pushed open the door to the wine bar where they had agreed to meet and looked around until his eyes lit on Crowley. Seeing him, the demon smiled and raised his wine glass. “Hey, angel.”

“Hello, demon.” Aziraphale sat down and shook his head. It sounded much ruder the other way around. He made a mental note not to call Crowley that again. “You’ve already started, I see,” he said, indicating Crowley’s half-empty glass. “What is it this time?”

Crowley looked into the glass and shrugged. “Something red? I just held up the menu and pointed to something. Can’t say half the names, anyway. Bloody French spellings.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement. “Is it any good?”

“I’ve had better.”

Aziraphale ordered a glass of whatever was at the top of the list and turned to his associate. Whatever he had expected from the first demon of his acquaintance, it had not been Crowley. When Michael had come looking for someone to go to Earth for this assignment, he had volunteered before she got around to mentioning that it involved working with a demon. At the time, he had wrung his hands and convinced himself that he could put up with the Enemy for a while if it meant time on Earth and the chance to help Gabriel. That part ended up being much easier than he expected.

“So.” Crowley dragged out the syllable. “You go first. Any updates?”

“I know where Gabriel’s apartment is.”

“Ah.” Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “You found the unit number?”

“Well, just the building,” Aziraphale admitted.

“You had that last time.”

“I’m working on it.” In the three days since they had last met up, he had not discovered anything new about Gabriel. He had, however, discovered a bakery that would bake a cookie in the shape of a cup and serve it full of milk, so it wasn’t a complete loss, though he wasn’t sure Crowley would see it that way.

Aziraphale’s wine arrived, and he swirled the glass to let it breathe before he drank. “And you, do you have anything?”

A grin spread across Crowley’s face, and he leaned forward with both arms on the table. “I bought a car.”

Aziraphale paused in his swirling. “What?”

Crowley nodded like an excited teenager. “Yeah. A Tesla.”

A hundred questions popped into Aziraphale’s head. Where had Crowley learned to drive? And when? Was that how he had spent the past two weeks? Had he gone through the process of getting a license, or did demons not bother with that sort of legality? Aziraphale took a cautious sip and settled for asking, “What does that have to do with the assignment?”

Crowley shrugged. “Well, transportation. Helpful to track down Bee.”

“Couldn’t you just take a cab?”

“None of the cabs ever go fast enough.” Crowley drained his glass and set it back on the table. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be having that again, whatever it was. How’s yours?”

“It’s alright,” said Aziraphale, looking into the glass. “Be better with some food, though. A cheese plate, perhaps.”

“Hm.” Crowley nodded sarcastically. “If only you could do something about that.”

Aziraphale shot him an irritated look and waved the waiter over to order one. “And I’ll have a glass of whatever that was,” Crowley put in, pointing at Aziraphale’s glass.

“It was a merlot,” said Aziraphale dryly. “You know, ordering would be a lot easier if you remembered what it was you were getting.”

“Pfeh.” Crowley leaned back and looked annoyed, but didn’t argue.

“Back to business,” said Aziraphale. “What else have you got? Or is it just the car?”

“ _Just_ a car?” Crowley repeated, insulted. “I don’t think you fully understand the situation.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

“Wh—It’s a car!” Crowley exclaimed. “Have you ever been in a car? Fantastically clever things.”

“I took a cab to get here.”

“This one’s electric,” Crowley added. “It’s beautiful. Like a spaceship. You know what?” He got to his feet. “Why don’t I just show you. Come on.”

“Not before my cheese plate.”

Groaning, Crowley sat back down. “Fine. Eat your cheese, _then_ I’ll show you the car.”

The cheese plate was not quite up to Aziraphale’s standards, but he had expected as much. It was dreadfully difficult to find good cheeses anywhere west of the Atlantic, as with bread, wine, and many of Aziraphale’s other choice indulgences. Still, the combination of the cheese with the wine was satisfactory, and he left the wine bar feeling quite content.

The car ride, on the other hand, was not nearly so pleasant. Crowley spent just as much time in lanes of oncoming traffic as out of them, swerved around corners hard enough to make the whole car roll up onto two wheels, and nearly killed three people, if you counted Crowley and Aziraphale, which the latter absolutely did. He spent nearly the entire drive clinging to the handle on the car’s ceiling and pretending as hard as he could that he was somewhere else. “Crowley,” he shouted over the constant honk of horns, which was slightly louder around Crowley than it was in most of Manhattan. “Who the hell taught you how to drive?”

“I did,” said Crowley as the car blazed through a red light. He had been grinning the entire time, looking really demonic for the first time since Aziraphale had met him. “Isn’t this great?”

“You will discorporate us both,” shrieked Aziraphale. “And when you do, you’d better be prepared to do my paperwork as well as yours.”

Crowley scowled, but slowed the car to only fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit. “You’re no fun.”

“Where are you going, anyhow?” asked Aziraphale. He shut his eyes as they raced past a truck near enough to hear the wind rushing through the inches between it and the window.

Crowley, for some incoherent reason, decided it was a good time to take his eyes off the road. “Back to your place. Why, should I drop you somewhere else?”

“No, that’s—that’s fine, only why are you in such a hurry?”

Shooting Aziraphale an impatient glare, he slowed down another five miles per hour. “Well, if you want to enjoy the scenery,” he said sarcastically. “What are your plans for the next few days, as far as the assignment goes?”

“Keep trailing Gabriel,” said Aziraphale. It was the same answer he had given during their last two meetings, but he had spent most of his time holed up in the New York Public Library instead. “You?”

“Ehh, keep trailing Beelz. This time in my beautiful, shiny, fast new car.”

“I really don’t understand what the big deal is,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Then I pity you. I really do.” The car screeched to a stop just in time to keep from hurtling into a street busy with cross-traffic. Aziraphale’s head smacked into the windshield just hard enough to make a noise, and Crowley tutted in mock sympathy. “And that, angel, is why we buckle up.”

“That is not the lesson to draw from this,” Aziraphale hissed, pulling down the seat belt. “You are out of your mind. Are you trying to get me killed?” The thought alarmed him. Crowley was a demon, after all. Maybe this had been his plan all along, to charm Aziraphale, get him into this deathtrap of a vehicle, and then smash the passenger side against a wall. “Are you?”

“Why the bloody heaven would I do that? We’re meant to be working together,” Crowley pointed out, gunning the accelerator to slip through a gap in the traffic. “Plus, you’ve threatened to saddle me with the paperwork. Not sure how you plan to do that when you’re stuck in heaven without a functioning body.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to risk it,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve seen that form. I helped Gabriel fill it out in the 1500’s. Even with both of us, it took over fifty years.”

Crowley turned to him incredulously. _“Fifty?”_

“Watch the road,” Aziraphale yelled. “Stop—stop, the light’s red!”

Crowley glanced up at the light as he zoomed underneath it. “Oh, I guess so. Whoops. Fifty years? I knew those forms tied down Beelz for a while, but—”

“Beelzebub was…?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “They had a run-in with Michael. What did Gabriel in?”

“Well—Beelzebub.”

Crowley nodded. “Huh. Guess they weren’t always friends, then.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Friends?” He had not considered that a possibility. Gabriel and Beelzebub were hereditary enemies. If they had decided to work together, it must be simply because they had decided that their interests aligned, like him and Crowley.

Crowley glanced at him. “You don’t think they are?”

“Well, they…” Aziraphale laughed nervously. “They’re an angel and a demon. They can’t be _friends_.”

Crowley looked through the windshield. As always, his eyes were inscrutable behind his glasses. “No,” he said after a moment. “Guess not. Well, here we are.” He stopped the car, a little more gently than he had at the stoplight earlier. “See you Thursday?”

“As usual,” Aziraphale confirmed, opening the door to scramble out. Palpable relief washed over him as his feet touched solid pavement. Driving with Crowley was an adventure he did not wish to repeat.

Crowley did not drive off right away. “Have you ever been to a Starbucks?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “What is that?”

“Coffee shop,” said Crowley. “Or tea, if that’s more your thing. They’ve got pastries too.”

Aziraphale’s interest markedly increased. “Sounds lovely.”

“Lovely,” Crowley repeated, imitating his tone and putting the car back in drive. “Thursday, then. I’ll text you the details. Shut the bloody door, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale shut the door and turned to walk into his apartment building.

The window rolled down behind him. “Wait, angel?”

He turned. “Hm?”

Crowley gestured at the passenger side door. “It didn’t shut completely. Could you—”

“Oh—yes. Sorry.” He opened the door and shut it more firmly. “Drive safe,” he said through the open window, adding an extra emphasis on the second word.

“Never.” The window rolled up, and the shiny black Tesla pulled back into traffic and rocketed away. It turned into a one-way street in the wrong direction, and Aziraphale winced as the sound of horns and what sounded like crashes echoed down the street. He hoped Crowley didn’t kill himself. Aziraphale frowned at the realization that he might miss Crowley if he did. Swallowing, he turned to enter the apartment building and tried not to think about the fact that he might enjoy the company of a demon more than that of all the angels of heaven.

Aziraphale sweated into his suit as he waited in line for the box office. The sun was unbearably bright today. He squinted up at the sky, wishing he had some shades like Crowley’s, though he would probably look a little ridiculous in them. He really was not suited for this heat, so he compensated by not spending much time outside. He had passed a very agreeable morning at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and was about to secure even more agreeable plans for this evening. He’d been a little wary of musical theater at first, since most of his experiences with it involved the annual viewing parties of the-show-that-must-not-be-named and year-round references to it that made Aziraphale’s eye twitch with annoyance. Once he had gotten over his prejudices and given the art form a chance, however, he found many shows he quite enjoyed.

“Aziraphale?”

He jumped at the sound of Crowley’s voice and wheeled around to see the demon leaning against one of the stanchions. “Crowley,” he said, trying not to sound guilty. “What a surprise.”

“What d’you think you’re doing here?” Crowley hissed. “Aren’t you supposed to be trailing Gabriel? This is _disgraceful_.”

Aziraphale winced, twisting his hands together. “Yes, I-I was, I was just about to get back to—”

“Wh—No, I’m joking!” said Crowley. “Satan, you looked like I was going to bite your head off. No, Aziraphale, why d’you think _I’m_ here?”

They looked at each other for a moment before they both started laughing. “Oh,” said Aziraphale, relieved that he wasn’t the only one slacking, “That is funny.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Bit embarrassing though. What are you seeing?”

“I was thinking _Fiddler on the Roof,_ ” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, I saw that on Saturday,” said Crowley. “Good choice. I was gonna go for _Wicked._ ”

“I hear that’s very good,” said Aziraphale. “You’d better get in line, though. It’s only getting longer.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “You know you can just…” he tilted his head to indicate the front of the line.

“I will not,” Aziraphale insisted.

“You angels and your rules,” Crowley sighed, turning to cut into the front of the line. Aziraphale shot the back of his head a jealous look, then squinted up at the sun again. He didn’t think he could last much longer out here without melting. He ought to find another museum where he could pass the afternoon. Or perhaps a bakery. He had finally gotten a library card, so he could borrow books and take them with him wherever he pleased, which was usually someplace with food.

Crowley finished his transaction and sauntered back past the line. He stopped next to Aziraphale and handed him a ticket. Aziraphale looked at him quizzically, then took it. “Enjoy the show,” Crowley drawled, then turned and went on his way.

Aziraphale looked down at the front-row ticket to _Fiddler on the Roof,_ then back up at the quickly disappearing demon. It was…well, it couldn’t be nice, exactly. He was a demon, after all. He couldn’t be nice. Could he?

The question occupied him well into the afternoon and all through the show. It had been such an insignificant thing, to prompt this much thought. Aziraphale was certain he was overthinking it. But…there wasn’t much about Crowley that Aziraphale could call properly demonic, except perhaps his driving. Strange things had been happening lately, anyway. First an angel and demon had worked together against their respective sides, and then Armageddon had not happened, and now…well, maybe it wasn’t such a stretch to believe that a demon could be nice. Maybe, Aziraphale dared to speculate, an angel and a demon could even be friends.

Crowley walked into the Starbucks and waltzed up to the front of the line. Everyone who was waiting suddenly took a serious interest in the wall to their right. “Afternoon,” he said to the barista. “I’ll have a tall double macchiato, half almond milk, half whole, and half soy, upside-down and extra hot.”

Her eyes widened as she struggled to scribble all that on the cup. “That’s, um, that’s three halves, sir.”

“Name for the order is Anthony,” he said, slapping down a ten. “Keep the change.”

Ordering was half the fun of going to a Starbucks, in Crowley’s opinion. Possibly more than half. He walked away from the counter as the barista turned to her co-worker and mouthed, “upside-down?”

“You’ll give the poor girl an anxiety attack,” said Aziraphale disapprovingly as Crowley sat down. “And Anthony?”

“Thought I ought to pick a human name,” said Crowley with a shrug. “What name did you give them? Don’t tell me you had them write ‘Aziraphale.’”

Another barista appeared at the pick-up counter with a cup. “Got a london fog for…” he squinted at the cup. “It’s just a drawing of a bow tie.”

Aziraphale sighed and got up to retrieve the cup. When he came back, Crowley saw that it was covered in scratched-out attempts to spell the angel’s name. “It shouldn’t be that difficult,” he said huffily. “I stood there and spelled it for her.”

Crowley could barely keep from laughing at the thought of Aziraphale fussing over the spelling of his name with ever-expiring patience. “How long did you hold up the line for that?”

Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look. “At least I don’t cut in front. Some of those people have places to go.”

“Croissant for bow tie,” said the barista, setting down a paper packet. “And a…whatever-the-hell-this-is for Anthony. At least he’s got a real name.”

Both of them started to stand at the same time. Crowley made an irritated noise and motioned for Aziraphale to sit while he went and fetched both of them. “Why,” he asked, coming back, “would you order a croissant this far from France?”

“It’s not as if I can just take a quick jaunt across the Atlantic,” said Aziraphale, pulling out the croissant. He looked down at it with a melancholy sigh. “It’s really not the same, though.”

Crowley agreed and took a sip of his drink, which was indeed extra-hot and promptly scalded all his taste buds into numbness. “How was _Fiddler on the Roof_?” he asked, swallowing the pain.

“Very good, thank you,” said Aziraphale. Inwardly, Crowley recoiled from the thanks, although he wasn’t sure what he was being thanked for. It was most likely just one of Aziraphale’s meaningless pleasantries. He had a lot of those. “And how did you find _Wicked?_ ”

“It was great,” said Crowley. “Bit odd, though. There was a part with a tin man that never came back up again.”

“I believe that’s a reference to the books,” said Aziraphale, taking a delicate bite of the croissant. “You know,” he said, in response to Crowley’s confusion, “ _The Wizard of Oz?_ ”

“I’m not much of a reader,” Crowley admitted. He preferred to spend his time driving around in his shiny car, discovering new types of alcohol, and, when he was certain that nobody downstairs was paying attention, watching television. Attention from downstairs shouldn’t have been a problem, except that Crowley’s taste in shows did not match up with what was expected of a demon. Recently, he had been binging _Friends_. Not that he couldn’t find a way to frame the show in evil terms, but, well, the name. “Is there a movie of this book?” he asked.

“I believe so,” said Aziraphale. “If you can pry yourself away from your work long enough to watch it.”

Crowley snorted. A sarcastic angel. The more he got to know Aziraphale, the more he found to like about him. “You’re one to talk,” he said, taking a sip of his whatever-the-hell-it-was and scalding himself a second time. Trying not to look too much in pain, he removed the lid to let some of the heat out. “Speaking of. I had a thought about our…” he waved his hand at the table. “Arrangement. Clearly, neither of us is particularly inclined to get much done.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve found out the floor Gabriel is living on.” He sighed. “Well, narrowed down. It’s somewhere between nine and twenty-one.”

“It’s been four days,” Crowley pointed out. “Look, we’re supposed to be here working together, so maybe we’d get more done if we actually _worked together_.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, chewing a bite of the croissant. “You mean,” he said after he had swallowed, “we would both follow Gabriel together for a while, and then both follow Beelzebub?”

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “That way, we can keep each other accountable. These meetings clearly aren’t cutting it, and I don’t know about your lot, but mine is starting to wonder why I’ve got nothing to show so far.”

Aziraphale looked down, his forehead creasing. “I suppose it might help,” he said. “We could try it out.”

“And if we’re working more efficiently,” Crowley went on, “That leaves us more time to enjoy ourselves while we’re here.” He folded his arms on the tabletop. “Now, I happen to have two tickets to _The Sound of Music_ for Sunday night, if you—”

“Absolutely not.”

He said it so sharply that Crowley jumped back from the table, nearly spilling his drink. “All right, then,” he said, trying not to sound too hurt. Of course they would never be friends—the angel had said as much himself—but Crowley had hoped Aziraphale might be tempted enough by the musical that he’d at least put up with Crowley for the evening. Supposedly, all angels loved _The Sound of Music_. Crowley hadn’t thought Aziraphale would object so violently to just sitting next to him while watching it.

“I cannot sit through another rendition of that dreadful show,” said Aziraphale, shuddering like they were talking about a horror film and not a stage musical. “Every blasted year since it was written—Sandalphon always tries to sing along, and you know ‘voice of an angel’ is only an expression—No. Perhaps something else.” He sipped his London fog and glanced at Crowley. “I hear good things about _West Side Story_ , and I do so enjoy Bernstein’s other work. Would that do?”

“Uh…yeah,” said Crowley, struggling to follow what was being said but grasping onto relief as the common thread. Heaven sounded almost as bad as hell sometimes. At least hell did not have mandatory sing-alongs. “Okay, then. _West Side Story_.”

“I’ll go after this to get tickets,” said Aziraphale. “If Sunday night isn’t available…”

“I have no schedule to speak of,” said Crowley. “Until we figure out this new arrangement, that is. One way or another, we’ve got to find Gabe’s apartment number.”

“Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and straightened his bow tie. “He goes jogging nearly every morning at sunrise. That’s when I’ve been trailing him—”

“Sunrise?” Crowley groaned a complaint and leaned back in his chair. He already regretted suggesting they work together more closely. Sleeping in late was one of his favorite things to do on Earth. “Alright, fine, sunrise,” he said resignedly. “So what, we just follow him?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” said Aziraphale. “It’s difficult keeping up, though. Anyway, now that I know the building, I can just wait outside.”

“And he doesn’t see you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I, er…I bring a newspaper.” He mimed unfolding a paper to cover his face.

Crowley stared at him. “Is Gabriel an idiot?”

The angel hesitated. “Maybe just a little.”

Perfect. That would make things so much easier. “Okay,” said Crowley. “Sunrise tomorrow. Text me the address. We’ll find the unit number, and then Saturday we hunt down Beelz.”

“And Bernstein on Sunday,” Aziraphale added.

Crowley couldn’t hold back a grin. “Bernstein on Sunday.”


	2. Newspaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is pretty sure he's being followed. This is because he's being followed.

Now that the Earth hadn’t been destroyed, it was actually pretty boring. Before the antichrist was born, Gabriel had spent nearly all of his time coming up with ways to thwart Beelzebub, and after than they had both been preoccupied with stopping Armageddon. Now, he had almost nothing to do, and he could only pass so much time with running and biking and yoga. He supposed, if he got really bored, he could always climb Everest again, but it was cold up there, and too cloudy for a decent view, and he’d had enough of endless white for another six thousand years. After a week, he was so desperate for activity that he tried bird watching. _Bird watching_. It had been one of the darkest two-hour periods of Gabriel’s life. Luckily, he happened to spot a tourist with a massive camera slung around his neck in the middle of it, and decided to take up photography instead.

Skylines and buildings were the easiest for pictures, but that got old quickly, despite his best efforts to come up with new and interesting angles (which usually meant a 30 degree tilt, or 45 if he was feeling really creative). Nature photography provided more of a challenge. One day he sat on a bench for ten minutes waiting for the ducks to arrange themselves into a more appealing shape before he gave up and just snapped a photo of someone’s dog instead. He almost got the perfect shot of a yellow butterfly, but it took flight just as he was about to press the button.

He lowered the camera, watching it flutter away. It wasn’t a bee, but it was similar enough to turn his thoughts towards Long Island. He wondered how the demon was faring after the failed apocalypse. They were the one who always got bored, and he suspected that half their ridiculous schemes had just been efforts to pass the time. He doubted whether anyone downstairs had asked them to dismantle the intelligence departments of both the United States and the Soviet Union in the sixties. After the apocalypse, they had seemed so excited about the lack of duties or assignments ahead of them. _We can do whatever we want_. Gabriel wondered what it was that they wanted to do, and wished he could think of something himself.

Gabriel was starting to get the sense that he was being followed. Specifically, he was being followed by a newspaper, which was attached to a person. He couldn’t say much about the person, since he had only seen their legs and lower torso, but the newspaper itself must be about two weeks old by now. He had half a mind to rip that paper out of their hands and demand to know what they wanted, but if their goal was to hurt him, they could have done that long before now. Maybe he should warn Beelzebub. If heaven had sent someone after him, one of hell’s agents might be trailing them. Then again, they probably would have noticed by now, observant as they were. If anything, they would err on the side of seeing more threats than actually existed.

Newspaper (as he had come to think collectively of both the paper and its holder) was waiting outside Gabriel's apartment when he finished his morning run, as usual. He pretended not to notice, as if that would make them go away, or at least spring whatever trap they were planning. He was getting tired of waiting around. Panting just a little from the run, he walked up the steps and pulled out his keys.

“Hi, uh, ‘scuse me,” said an unfamiliar voice. “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? You wouldn’t happen to live on the, ah…fifteenth floor, would you?”

Gabriel turned to see some redheaded goth standing and leaning against the railing in a way that could not have been good for his posture. For some reason, he was wearing shades, even though it was a cloudy day. Gabriel looked over his outfit distastefully. These humans and their weird fashions. “No,” he said. “I’m on twelve.”

“Oh, no kidding!” said the goth. “Same here. 1266. Just moved in.” He held out a hand. “Anthony. And you are?”

Gabriel shook his hand gingerly. “Gabriel.”

The goth nodded and waved vaguely up at the apartment. “Which number are you, then?”

“1203.” Gabriel gave a tight, empty smile that ought to dissuade the goth from ever trying to converse with him again. “Welcome to the building.”

Before the goth could make some inane comment about the weather, or, worse, start asking Gabriel about his interests, he walked inside and pointedly shut the door behind him. These humans were so ungrateful. Gabriel had saved all their lives, or at least, he had not actively tried to end them like he was supposed to. Was it too much to ask for them to leave him alone?

The elevator shot up to the twelfth floor, and he stepped out. The goth must be new to New York. Gabriel would have to make sure to stay away from 1266 until his ‘making friends with the neighbors’ phase wore off. He looked down the hallway and frowned. There were only sixteen apartments on this floor. 1266 didn’t exist.

He cursed and miracled his door open without bothering with the keys. Newspaper had set him up. The stalking must have been intentionally obvious, just to distract him while goth found out what they really wanted to know. Angel or not, that was devious. It seemed like something Beelzebub might pull, except Beelzebub already knew where he lived.

He snapped his fingers to change out of his tracksuit and into his favorite grey turtleneck and slacks. This apartment had been compromised. He’d have to move. Quickly.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” said Crowley, leaning over the railing to smirk at Aziraphale. “‘Bring your own newspaper,’ you said. Honestly, who reads newspapers anymore? If anything, you’re the suspicious one.”

“You were a tad obvious,” Aziraphale grumbled, folding up his newspaper. “But I suppose it worked. I’m going up.”

“What—Now?”

“Yes, now. Why not?”

“We haven’t brought anything.” Crowley looked over Aziraphale’s jacket as if he thought the angel might be hiding a few grenades, or perhaps a small handgun, underneath. “Sure, it’s two against one, but he’s bigger than either of us.”

“I’m not going to fight him,” said Aziraphale, aghast. “I’m trying to help him, remember? I’ll just go up and talk to him.”

Crowley blinked very slowly. “You’ve been trailing him for two weeks trying to get his apartment number so you can go in and _talk to him?_ Why not just stop him in the street?”

“Privacy,” said Aziraphale. “And, if I caught him in public, he could just run away.”

“Ah,” Crowley nodded. “So you’re cornering him.”

“No! It isn’t like that,” Aziraphale huffed. “Let me do the talking. Remember, I know Gabriel. I can make him listen.”

“Mm-hm,” said Crowley, nodding. “I’ll just stand in the back and intimidate him for you.”

“Intimidate him?” said Aziraphale. “You?”

“I’m a prince of hell!” He pulled off his glasses and glowered down at Aziraphale, who jumped. “See? Not half bad, hm?”

“No, it’s just, I hadn’t seen your eyes before,” said Aziraphale. “I wasn’t entirely sure you had them.”

Crowley frowned, covered his gold-slitted eyes again with his shades. “Weren’t sure I had them,” he muttered. He snapped his fingers, and the door flew open. “Well, let’s go in, shall we?”

Luckily, Gabriel was not particularly attached to anything in his apartment. There was only his camera, his clothes, his workout equipment, and the handful of abstract paintings on his walls. Well, they had once been abstract paintings, anyway. Beelzebub had painted over the stark, black-and-white lines with a solid foggy grey. They had thought they were being very clever. At least they made more sense than the old paintings, even if the symbolism was extremely unsubtle.

He pulled each painting off its hook and laid them against the wall in a stack, then snapped his fingers to summon a suitcase and a half-dozen garment bags. As he pulled suits out of his closet and shoved them inside, he scrambled to come up with a plan. Maybe he should get out of New York for a while. The Northwest was nice in the summer. Plenty of hiking there. Or maybe he should leave the country altogether—Unless that was just what they wanted him to do. Was Beelzebub’s cabin big enough for both of them? No, he’d never get any sleep with all the bees buzzing in the back.

A knock on the door made him jump. Who had they sent after him now? Newspaper? Goth? He shivered. _Michael?_ No, no—He forced himself to breathe. They didn’t know about the switch. As far as they knew, he was invulnerable. He could just intimidate them into leaving him alone. He’d certainly picked up enough tricks from Beelzebub, and he was a good deal taller than them.

“Gabriel?” said a familiar posh voice. “Are you in there?”

Gabriel paused. They had sent _Aziraphale?_ That harmless little guy from records? Were they trying to insult him?

“I just want to talk,” said Aziraphale. “I’m here to help you.”

Cautiously, Gabriel set down the fistful of clothes hangers and went to the door to squint through the peephole. The distorted lens made Aziraphale’s round face even rounder. Gabriel recognized the beige of his trousers and jacket. “You’re the one who’s been following me with a newspaper?”

“Ah…You did notice. Yes, I suppose I am,” Aziraphale admitted. “Look, if I could just come inside…”

Aziraphale wasn’t dangerous. Gabriel unlocked and opened the door. Aziraphale jumped a little, a nervous smile flicking across his face. “Ah, very good. As you can see, I am unarmed,” he said, raising his hands. “As is my associate…”

He gestured behind him, where Goth stood with his arms folded, glowering at Gabriel. “Oh,” said Gabriel, finally making the association between the red hair and the sunglasses. “You’re Crowley. Beelzebub told me about you.”

Crowley raised his head to look down his nose at Gabriel. “Then you know I’m a Prince of Hell. But, since you’re not shaking, you don’t seem to understand what that means. I’d rather not demonstrate, but—”

“They said you were a pushover, actually,” said Gabriel.

“A _what?_ ”

“Not important,” said Aziraphale, with a warning glance at Crowley. “May we come inside?”

With a sigh, Gabriel waved them in. “So, what’s going on?” he asked. “What did you want to talk about? I’m guessing it’s not the weather.”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “I, actually…head office sent me here to bring you in. That’s not why I’m here,” he added, raising his hands to calm Gabriel. “I want to help you. You should have gotten a proper trial.”

“Trial?” Gabriel repeated before he could stop himself. Beelzebub had never told him the details of what had happened in heaven when they had switched places. Hell had given Beelzebub a trial. He had always just assumed… “I mean, yeah,” he said, forcing a laugh. His throat was tight. “That was pretty unfair.”

“Terribly,” Aziraphale agreed earnestly. Gabriel almost felt bad for him. He had always cared too much. “I’m sure you had your own reasons for what you did.”

“Something like that.” This probably wasn’t the time to admit that his reasons were almost entirely selfish.

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “If head office knew what they were, perhaps…Well, I don’t know if they’d welcome you back into the fold, exactly, but perhaps we could get your punishment reduced from execution to exile on Earth.”

“So, they’d…leave me alone, down here?” That would be alright. Enjoying life on Earth was why he had stopped Armageddon, after all. It was his own fault he couldn’t find anything to do here now that it was over. It was hard to believe the angels would really just leave him alone, after they’d tried to outright destroy him, but Aziraphale’s expression screamed sincerity, and Gabriel didn’t think he was capable of a convincing lie. He looked up at Crowley. “And what about you? What are you doing here?”

“None of your businessss,” he hissed.

He’d probably been sent here as Aziraphale’s counterpart, which meant he was going after the demon. “I won’t sell out Beelzebub,” he said. “So if that’s why you’re here—”

“We’re not here to hurt you or them,” said Aziraphale. “They’ll get the same deal. Although, if you did happen to know where they are—”

“I wouldn’t tell you.” Aziraphale might not lie to him, but he didn’t know or trust this Crowley.

“Alright,” said Aziraphale gently. “We won’t ask you to. Just tell us what happened.”

Gabriel eyed them both. Aziraphale had helped him out in the past, first with the discorporation paperwork and then with Michael’s lies about promotion. He was probably the closest thing Gabriel had in heaven to a friend. This sudden desire to defend Gabriel was unexpected, to say the least, particularly since Gabriel had always thought of Aziraphale as a bit of a coward. But it did seem genuine. Gabriel would have to be an idiot to pass up the opportunity. As for Crowley, well, even if he had some ulterior motive, it was unlikely that he’d go up to heaven just to condemn Gabriel further.

Sighing, Gabriel pulled up one of his artistically-shaped chairs and motioned for Aziraphale and Crowley to sit down. “Alright. Have a seat. This could take a while.”


	3. Demon Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley's meeting with Beelzebub doesn't go nearly as smoothly as their meeting with Gabriel.

Beelzebub had imagined quite a lot once the strings were finally off and they were free of hell’s control. They had thought about starting a few new wars, toppling civilizations, maybe even ruling a country for a century or two. Somehow, though, all they ever got around to doing was sitting around with the bees. So, even though everything had changed, nothing really had. The biggest difference was that now they could now do this all day, every day, for the foreseeable future.

Beelzebub could have looked at this as a problem. Instead, they took it as an opportunity, and doubled the number of beehives behind the cabin. The first three were still in the place of honor at the front. They had once pulled Beelzebub out of a pretty bad place, and for that they were grateful. It might have made more sense to direct that gratitude towards Gabriel, but he didn’t really deserve it. He hadn’t called once since they had saved the world together. Beelzebub thought they would have at least merited a visit once in a while. They were perfectly capable of visiting Gabriel’s apartment in the city, of course, but why should they, if he couldn’t even be bothered to call?

Beelzebub was going to have an even bigger surplus of honey than usual at the end of the year, so they started looking for new ways to use it. Their attempts at baking ended in disaster, but their experiments with mead seemed promising so far. Granted, they were only a few days into the month-long fermentation process, but nothing had caught on fire or stained the ceiling yet, which was already an improvement from the baking. They were mixing up another batch (the first one was taking too long, and they had to have something to do) when someone knocked on the door. Beelzebub set down their stirring stick, and covered the pot to keep it warm. “About time you showed up,” they yelled, heading for the door. “Where have you—”

They opened the door and found themselves face-to-face with Lord Crowley. He smiled awkwardly. “Hey, Beelzeb—”

Beelzebub slammed the door in his face. “Oh, real polite,” said Crowley through the door. “Look, Bee, I just want to talk—”

Beelzebub did not want to talk. To demonstrate this, they grabbed their umbrella from the stand beside the door and fired three shots through the door. “My name is _Beelzebub_. If you’re gonna hunt me down where I live, at least say the whole thing!”

“But that’s four syllables!”

Beelzebub aimed and fired a fourth shot towards where Crowley’s voice had come from. From the cry he let out, it sounded like that one had hit. “I said I just want to talk,” he whined. They had apparently not aimed well enough.

“Satan, you’re pathetic,” said Beelzebub, relishing the feeling of finally being able to say that without repercussions. “You were a disgrace to hell, Crowley. You still are.”

“Crowley?” called a distant, even more British voice. “What’s happening?”

“Stay in the car, Aziraphale—”

“I heard gunshots!”

“Aziraphale?” Beelzebub snorted. Crowley was working with that angel? Heaven and hell hadn’t exactly sent their best and brightest. “You don’t seem to have a problem saying those four syllablezzz.”

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale gasped. “Your shoulder—Is that blood?”

Shoulder? Beelzebub scowled. They hadn’t even managed to hit a vital area.

“Alright, Beelzebub,” said Crowley. “I’ll stop with the nicknames, just open the—” He yelped suddenly. “Don’t touch that!”

“I’m trying to help,” said Aziraphale. “You’re hurt.”

Beelzebub briefly pondered setting some of the bees on the both of them. It might be worth sacrificing a hive or two, but only as a last resort. “If I open the door, it will be to see your headzzz so I can aim better,” they said. “I am not talking to anyone.”

“You stupid demon,” said Aziraphale. “I am trying to _help you!_ ”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” said Crowley. “They won’t listen.”

“I was talking to you, Crowley. Hold still.”

“Help me?” Beelzebub said cautiously, still aiming the umbrella at the door. “I don’t answer to you or anyone else anymore, Crowley. I’m immune to holy water, which I’m sure someone told you because you were too much of a coward to show your face at my trial. What help could you possibly have to offer?”

They didn’t answer for a moment. “If you’re immune to holy water,” said Crowley, “then I guess you won’t mind if we douse this whole place with it. Just to be sure. Aziraphale, if you would.”

Beelzebub’s eyes snapped open. They couldn’t have figured out the switch already. But if they had—

“Right-o.” The angel cleared his throat. “If you would just back away. It would be terribly unfortunate if you were accidentally splashed—”

“Stop.” Beelzebub wrenched the door open. Crowley and Aziraphale were standing there without a drop of water, holy or otherwise, anywhere in sight. They let out frustrated sigh. “You’re bluffing.”

“But you opened the door.” Crowley stuck his foot over the threshold to keep Beelzebub from slamming it closed again. “Why do you look so scared, if holy water can’t hurt you?”

Oh, fuck. Somehow, this pair of idiots had caught them. That was even worse than being outsmarted by Gabriel.

“We really just want to talk,” said the angel, giving what was probably supposed to be a comforting smile, but which Beelzebub found sickening. “We think, if heaven and hell heard your side of the story…”

“I’ll tell you my side” Beelzebub stepped forward and stuck the umbrella under Crowley’s chin. “You’re unarmed. You have no holy water. Right now, you can’t hurt me. So fuck off, before I send you back where you came from.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t seem to decide whether to be frightened or confused. “Is that an umbrella? Like for rain?”

“Like that,” said Beelzebub. “More for the rain of blood when I blow your head off your shoulders.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale stepped forward, both hands raised. “I believe you’ve made your point. Crowley, let’s go.”

Crowley nodded and stepped backwards. “Well, we tried doing this the easy way,” he said with a helpless shrug. “Don’t blame us when things get messy.”

“That’s quite enough,” said Aziraphale. “They have a gun. Umbrella. Both.”

“They wouldn’t shoot me.”

“They just did!”

“Again. You didn’t let me finish. They wouldn’t shoot me, _again_.”

Beelzebub shut the door, ran into the kitchen, and snatched up the phone from there they’d left it on the table. Their hand shook a little as they selected the only number saved to their contacts. “Pick up, you feathery git,” they muttered, nails drumming against the table. “Pick up—”

“Beelzebub?” said Gabriel on the other end of the line. “Is that you?”

“Yes it’s me, you idiot.”

“It’s, er, been a while.”

“Skip the pleasantriezzz, Gabe,” Beelzebub snapped. “They know.”

“What do you mean, they know?”

“I mean Crowley and that blazzzted angel Azzziraphale.” Beelzebub’s buzz always came out more than usual when they were worked up. “They know about the switch.”

“Oh, that,” said Gabriel. “Yes, I know.”

“You what? How—”

“I…I told them.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale dryly as the car whizzed down the road back toward the city. “That went smashingly.”

Crowley shot him a glance. Thanks to Aziraphale’s divine intervention, the gunshot wound in his shoulder had already stopped bleeding and scabbed over. “I told you to stay in the car.”

“You were shot,” said Aziraphale. “You won’t do anybody much good if you’re too busy bleeding all over the welcome mat.”

“Yeah, neither will you, angel,” said Crowley. “I could have taken care of the wound myself. It’s demon business. Let the demon handle it.”

Aziraphale frowned and looked through the windshield. Luckily, Crowley’s driving wasn’t quite so bad when they weren’t in the city, weaving between cars and swerving around corners. “Is that…normally how demons deal with each other?”

“Well, ehh.” Crowley shrugged. “Beelzebub’s never actually shot me before, but that was when the hierarchy of hell actually mattered to them. I should’ve expected this, really.”

“I thought you said you liked them.”

“I said they were alright, for a demon,” Crowley corrected. “It’s a very low bar.”

Aziraphale tossed a sidelong glance at Crowley and tried to imagine him threatening someone with an umbrella gun. Then he imagined getting stuck on Earth working with Beelzebub instead, and shuddered. Perhaps he had been luckier than he realized.

Gabriel struggled not to flinch as Beelzebub glared at him across the table, tearing apart an orange. Juice splattered all over his pristine marble table. Beelzebub pulled out a wedge and crushed it between their teeth. Gabriel’s eye twitched, but he managed to keep from looking away. The demon was certainly taking their time making him feel uncomfortable. “So what did they offer you?” they asked in a voice dangerously quiet. “Reinstatement in heaven? Your own office, with a window?”

“I didn’t sell you out,” Gabriel snapped. “It wasn’t like that.”

Beelzebub acted like they hadn’t heard. “What else did you tell them, apart from where I live and how to kill me?”

“I didn’t tell them where you live.” Gabriel’s voice rose “And they’d pretty much figured out the switch anyway, no thanks to you. Threatening Michael with hellfire? You were supposed to be covering for me, not living out your revenge fantasies.”

Beelzebub scoffed. “Like you’ve never had revenge fantasies against Michael.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about,” said Gabriel. “Zira looked me in the eye and said, ‘That wasn’t you at the execution, was it?’ What was I supposed to say?”

“Lie!” Beelzebub bit into another orange wedge so hard that the juice somehow squirted across the entire table and spattered Gabriel’s turtleneck. “How could you just give away the linchpin of my survival on Earth?”

“Mine too,” said Gabriel, pointing at himself. “They’re not going to kill us. Did you even listen to what they had to say?”

“What, all the ‘We only want to talk, Beelzebub! Put down the gun!’”

“Gun?”

“Look, it’s great for you if you trust that fluffy-haired angel,” Beelzebub went on, chewing on another orange wedge as they spoke. “But I do _not_ have that kind of relationship with Crowley. I blackmailed him. Now he’s here to take me out of the picture. And you told him exactly how to do that.”

Frustrated, Gabriel closed his hands into fists and brought them near his face. “Why, how are you a threat to him now? How would you get him demoted now that you’re cut off from hell?”

Instead of answering, Beelzebub glared at Gabriel and bit into the rest of the orange as if it was an apple.

Gabriel’s stomach writhed at the sight, but he took their silence as a good sign. “If he wanted you dead, wouldn’t he have showed up with holy water to finish things right away?”

Beelzebub chewed and swallowed. Their hand dripped with juice. “Maybe he’s got other plans. Or maybe he’s just an idiot.”

“You know I’m right,” said Gabriel. “God knows why, but they’re trying to help us. Against their own orders, I might add. Would you hurry up and finish that thing already? You’ve made your point.”

Beelzebub shoved the entire rest of the orange into their mouth. Their cheeks puffed out, and they nearly gagged as they chewed it, but after a few minutes they managed to choke it all down. “Something’s motivating Crowley,” they said. “There’s something he’s hoping to get from this. And I can’t blackmail him when he’s got much worse dirt on me.” They gave Gabriel a slightly less furious look than they had at the beginning of the conversation. “I don’t like this.”

“Well, I do,” said Gabriel. “This could really work for us. They might leave us alone for good.”

Beelzebub snapped their fingers to clear up the mess of orange juice and peel they had made on the table. They left the stain on Gabriel’s shirt. “It’zzz a big risk.”

“And stopping Armageddon wasn’t?”

Beelzebub’s glare had faded back to their usual dead-eyed expression. “I guess it’s too late now that you’ve already told them.”

That was the closest thing to an agreement Gabriel was likely to get out of them. “You mentioned a gun,” he said. “You didn’t shoot them, did you?”

“Not fatally,” said Beelzebub dismissively. “They both walked away in one piece.”

“Jesus, demon.” Gabriel shut his eyes for a moment in exasperation. “Why are you like this?”

“They showed up at my doorstep and threatened me with holy water!”

“Before or after you started shooting?”

Beelzebub sighed and rubbed their eyes. “I do not like this, Gabe.”

“I’d like to keep them on our side, please,” said Gabriel.

“Fine,” said Beelzebub. “I won’t dizzcorporate them. But if I get one hint that something’s off—”

“You always go looking for hints.”

“I’m careful,” Beelzebub snapped. “Let’s hope they are, too.”

Gabriel made a mental note to warn Aziraphale about Beelzebub’s paranoia. “So you’ll talk to them? Without shooting?”

Beelzebub’s scowl deepened. “Fine.”

Relieved, Gabriel sat back in his chair. At the beginning of the conversation, he had half expected the demon to pull a gun on him as well, or maybe start shredding all his suits. The orange had been bad enough. “What were you even doing in that cabin, anyway? I thought you had big plans after the apocalypse. I figured you’d be off dismantling national governments, or something.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“Nothing like that on the news recently.” Gabriel shrugged. “I guess it’s only been two weeks, though.”

The demon snorted. “Nah. I don’t do the demonic wiles thing anymore, since we both got fired. I got some more beehives, though.”

“Oh.” That was a bit of a letdown. Gabriel had been half-awaiting the formation of a new world order sometime in the next year or so. “That’s exciting,” he said, trying to sound excited.

“Not sure why,” Beelzebub admitted. “It just means double the amount of honey every year. Don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with it all.”

“This is America,” said Gabriel. “Sell it for profit.”

The demon blinked and looked at him for a moment. As usual, Gabriel had no idea what was going on behind those blank, dead eyes. After a moment, they said, “Maybe. If I knew the first thing about entrepreneurship.”

Gabriel nodded. “You know, I ran a railroad company for a bit back in the 1870s.” Surely the demon already knew that. They had certainly been watching him closely enough.

Beelzebub looked back at him flatly. “Did you now.”

Gabriel turned over a few thoughts in his head. It hadn’t taken long for him to run the company into the ground, and the stress of it had driven him nearly out of his mind. But it wasn’t as if either of them had to care much about profits, and he had been looking for something to do. “What the hell, demon,” he said, raising his hands and setting them on the table. “You wanna start a business?”


	4. Four Syllables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley realizes something.

On Sunday, Crowley found himself sitting next to an angel and watching a musical about gang violence during what was probably the most enjoyable evening he’d had all week. What, he wondered, would the Crowley of three weeks ago have had to say if he could see today’s Crowley right now? He chuckled to himself. For starters, three-weeks-ago Crowley would probably be wondering why the world hadn’t ended on schedule. Or maybe he’d look at an angel and a demon sitting together, and assume it had.

The lead actor was currently dancing while singing the name “Maria” over and over again. The poor romantic sap was out of his mind. _Maria, I’ve just met a girl name Maria…_ Yeah, thought Crowley, there’s plenty of those. Maybe try picking one that’s not related to a rival gang leader next time.

He snuck a glance at Aziraphale. The angel was leaning forward in his chair, watching with rapt attention, his head moving just slightly in time with the music. Crowley allowed himself a smile. Aziraphale threw himself so completely into whatever he was enjoying, and was so effusive about it, that you could practically see waves of delight emanating from him. Watching Aziraphale watch _West Side Story_ was almost as good as watching the show itself. Maybe better.

_…Maria, and suddenly I found how wonderful a sound can be…_

_You don’t seem to have a problem saying those four syllables,_ Beelzebub had said _._ Why should he think of that now, of all times? He peered around the edge of his sunglasses to glance again at the angel, who was still watching with that bright, unaware smile, the stage lights sparkling in his eyes.

_…Maria, say it loud and there’s music playing, say it soft and it’s almost like praying…_

Oh. _Oh._ It was like that.

Crowley’s eyes snapped away from Aziraphale. His face felt warm, and he silently thanked Satan for the darkness of the theater. No, it was ridiculous. He liked the angel a lot—it was difficult not to—and yes, on occasion, maybe he had searched for excuses to spend more time with him, but for hells’ sake it had been _two and a half weeks_. They had practically just met. Like that idiot onstage and his new girlfriend.

_…Maria, Maria, Maria, I’ll never stop saying Maria…_

_I sure bloody wish you would,_ Crowley wanted to shout at him. This was not supposed to happen. Friendship was one thing, and friendship was bad enough, but Jesus H. Christ, he must be a pretty abysmal demon (or a good one, whatever adjective was most unnatural) if he had spent two weeks on Earth and just fallen in love with the first angel who—

Oh, that was…He’d just thought that word. Just like that. Well, fuck.

But he was a demon! He glanced around frantically and considered setting the theater on fire to illustrate this point, then remembered that he was inside the theater, and for that matter so was Aziraphale, and he didn’t want to ruin what had so far been a fantastic evening. So far. Before he had gone and thought _that word_ and assigned it to an angel.

Blast it, he was looking at Aziraphale again. He needed to stop doing that. It wouldn’t have been as much of a problem if he hadn’t been so damn radiant all the time. Before he could correct himself, the angel caught his eye, and the unconscious smile Crowley had been admiring turned to a nervous and self-conscious one. _Now look what you’ve done, Crowley._

The song ended, and in the ensuing applause, Aziraphale leaned over and said, “This is much better than _The Sound of Music_.”

Crowley tried to say some real words, but all that came out was something that sounded like, “Nhyeah.”

During the remainder of the show, Crowley managed to work through all five stages of grief, twice. He couldn’t be sure whether he was in the acceptance stage, or cycling back around for a third round of denial, when the floor lights came on and he convinced himself that it was fine, really. Everything was fine. It wasn’t as if anything was going to happen, and a lifetime of working in hell had given him a lot of practice suppressing emotions. He hadn’t gotten a chance to try with this particular emotion yet, but the basic principle would be the same. And it couldn’t be that serious. It had only been two and a half weeks.

“That was splendid,” said Aziraphale, as they exited onto the street. “What did you think?”

Crowley didn’t answer for a moment. The music had been fine. The ending…he didn’t like the ending so much. “Erm. Didn’t realize it was a tragedy.”

“Well, of course,” said Aziraphale, looking at him in surprise. “It’s based on _Romeo and Juliet_. I thought you knew that.”

Of course it was. Crowley’s life was already such a joke. It wasn’t enough to Fall (saunter, whatever) from heaven and spend millennia faking his way through a job he was not remotely qualified for, he had to fall _again_ and then realize it in the middle of a Broadway musical about the premature deaths of two star-crossed lovers, one of whom was named Tony. At that point, just say “Anthony J. Crowley” and let the whole world laugh it up. He shot a glare up at the sky. She’d always had a pretty twisted sense of humor, but this was cruel even for Her.

Aziraphale looked unhappy. “Oh dear. You didn’t like it at all, did you?”

Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug. “S’just, all the violence, and the death. We get enough of that downstairs.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale quietly. “Well, we could see something happier next.”

“Yeah, next,” said Crowley, and registered the word a second later. He brightened at the thought that Aziraphale wanted to make this a regular occurrence, but he didn’t think he could take another round of romantic tragedy and the ensuing embarrassment. “I’ll, er, see what I can find,” he said, determined to do his research properly this time. “But maybe later. I’ve got a busy week ahead,” he lied.

“Oh?” Aziraphale looked surprised. “You didn’t mention any plans. Anything I could help with?”

“Nah,” said Crowley. Most of his plans for the week involved drinking lots of alcohol and binge-watching sitcoms. “It’s, y’know, downstairs stuff.”

The angel nodded. “Are we still meeting tomorrow, then?”

“Er, yeah, course.” Crowley had forgotten about their scheduled Monday meeting. “You pick the place this time.”

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Well, there’s this bakery I’ve been dying to try—”

“Yeah, just text me the address,” Crowley cut him off. He was having trouble keeping still, and behind the shades, his eyes flitted around for an escape route. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Aziraphale called as he walked away. He waved without looking back and let out a deep breath. He needed to get home, and then he needed to get drunk. Maybe he could forget about all of this. As he climbed into the car, it occurred to him that maybe he should have offered to drive Aziraphale home instead of just leaving him there on the street. Oops.

He started the car and fumbled with his phone to get some music going. Maybe that would distract him. He started _Queen’s Greatest Hits_ , and the shuffler decided on “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” _This thing, called love, I just can’t handle it…_

Crowley leaned his head against the steering wheel and screamed.

“I get it,” he said, looking up at the sky when he was done. “Okay? You can stop now.”

There was no answer. There never was.


	5. Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub agrees to meet with Crowley. Deals with demons are tricky, even for demons themselves.

They were supposed to meet at 2 in the afternoon. Crowley woke up on the couch at 3:48 with a raging hangover. Spitting a string of curses, he reached for his phone and squinted against the light of the screen. Aziraphale had called him six times. Still cursing (although he had never really stopped), he fumbled with the lock screen and called the angel back.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted at the other end. Crowley winced and pulled the phone away from his ear. “Where have you been? I called and called—”

“Yeah, sorry,” Crowley croaked. “I overslept.”

“It’s nearly four!”

“I know.” Crowley tried to sit up, but his head pounded. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Are you feeling quite alright?” a note of concern crept into Aziraphale’s voice.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut for a moment while he miracled away the hangover. “Yeah, no, I’m fine,” he said. “Just slept at the wrong time.”

“You sleep?”

“It can be nice. Sloth, and all.” Plus, he had accidentally drunk himself into a stupor the night before and passed out on the couch. “We can meet now, if you want.”

Aziraphale gave a mournful sigh. “That bakery closes in half an hour. I suppose we could find somewhere else. Perhaps that wine bar again?”

Crowley snickered. “At four in the afternoon? That’s a bit early to start drinking, isn’t it?”

“Later, then,” said Aziraphale. “Maybe 7? Although I have opera tickets at 8…”

Crowley rubbed his forehead. “We could put it off until tomorrow. It’s just one day.”

There was a pause. “Alright, tomorrow morning,” said Aziraphale. “Try to wake up this time.”

“Better make it late morning, then,” said Crowley. “See you then, angel.” He hung up. Now that his eyes weren’t all blurry and his head didn’t feel like it was splitting open, it was much easier to read his phone screen. He frowned. Someone had texted him from an unknown number. He opened the messages.

_I’ll talk._

_Meet at my place at 6. Come by yourself._

_This is Beelzebub by the way._

A summons to Beelzebub’s remote cabin in Long Island? That didn’t sound murdery at all. Crowley drummed his fingers on his knee. Beelzebub was in no position to be making demands. They’d have to meet someplace public, with plenty of witnesses. Even if either of them could easily deflect unwanted attention, it would add an extra step. And coming alone was a little too risky, as well.

He started a new text to Aziraphale, but got stuck staring at the blank text box. What could he say? “Hey, I’m going to meet with the demon who shot me two days ago, if you don’t hear from me in a while it’s probably because they blew out my brains and dumped my body in the Hudson. Cheers!” The angel would insist on coming along, and he was so fussy and stubborn that Crowley doubted he’d be able to stop him. Look at what had happened when Beelzebub started shooting. Crowley rubbed his shoulder where the angel had healed it and shook his head with the barest hint of a fond smile. Blasted angel. He’d get himself into trouble one of these days.

No, if Beelzebub insisted he come alone, he’d have to come alone. Crowley would just have to make sure to come back in one piece, so Aziraphale would never be the wiser. Anyway, Beelzebub couldn’t do much except discorporate him. It would hurt for a second, and then a little bit longer while he filled out the paperwork, but it wouldn’t be permanent. And that was the worst case scenario. It would be fine.

Crowley thought a moment, then typed a response back to Beelzebub.

Beelzebub was lying faceup on a lime green beanbag chair that Gabriel definitely had not owned when they first showed up. Their spine arched in a way that human spines were definitely not designed to. Bean bags, which managed to look like the most comfortable seating in the world while actually being one of the least, had been one of hell’s designs. Beelzebub had been through fifteen different attempts to position themselves in the past half hour, and this had been the most successful so far. They could have just miracled it back into a regular chair, of course, but Gabriel’s eye twitched every time they changed a piece of his furniture, so naturally they had no choice.

Gabriel, meanwhile, was sitting in something that he claimed was “ergonomic.” It looked almost as uncomfortable as the beanbag chairs. He was leaning back with his feet on the table, staring at the ceiling like Beelzebub was. “Okay,” he said after a few minutes’ thought, “What about ‘Beelzebub’s Bees’?”

“Too close to a pun,” Beelzebub droned from the beanbag. “And don’t put my name in it.”

“My name sounds too mundane, though,” said Gabriel, disappointed. “They’re not even my bees.”

“Then don’t put any name in it.”

“Hellbees.” Gabriel frowned. “Do you have hellbees? You mentioned hellsharks once, and everyone’s heard of hellhounds—”

“They’re just called wasps,” said Beelzebub. “And no.”

“Hellish honey.”

“No.”

“Heavenly honey?”

“No.”

“Bees’ knees.”

“I will murder you if you print ‘Bees’ knees’ on my honey.”

Gabriel sighed. “What would you name it, then?”

“It’s honey from bees,” said Beelzebub lazily. “Just call it that.”

“You want to name the company ‘Honey from Bees.’”

“It’s accurate.”

Gabriel scoffed. “Nobody will buy that. It needs pizazz.” He gestured broadly with one hand to illustrate his point. “Purgatory Honey,” he said after a moment. “With a devil tail on the Y, and a halo over the P—”

“That is wildly unoriginal,” said Beelzebub. “Stop trying to work heaven and hell into your names. It makes no sense for a honey company.”

Gabriel steamrolled over them. “The tagline could be, ‘divinely sweet, devilishly…’ something else that honey is. I don’t know, I’ve never tasted it.”

“Gabe, just stop.” His suggestions were starting to hurt more than this beanbag. They flopped over onto their stomach to alleviate some of the pressure in their spine.

“At least I’m trying,” said Gabriel. “You have yet to make a single serious suggestion.”

“I did,” said Beelzebub. “‘Honey from Bees.’ It’s better than any of yours.”

“Better than ‘Purgatory’?”

“Again,” said Beelzebub with a sigh. “So unoriginal.”

Gabriel scowled. “Okay, then. ‘ _Bee_ Not Afraid.’”

“Oh, holy hell.”

“‘Let There _Bee_ Light.’”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“‘Milk and Honey, Without the Milk.’”

“That’s just stupid.”

“That’s how I feel about ‘Honey from Bees’!” Gabriel sighed. The chair squeaked as he spun it around. “Entrepreneurship is so much harder than I remember.”

“We haven’t even started the company yet.” Beelzebub turned over onto their back again, like they were suntanning, except instead of a tan they were evening out the crimp in their spine.

Gabriel’s chair squeaked again. After a moment, he started to snort with laughter. Beelzebub raised their head half-defensively, just in case the angel was laughing at them. His chair made another half turn to face Beelzebub. “Flycatcher,” said Gabriel, grinning. “‘Flycatcher Honey.’”

Beelzebub’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“You catch more flies with…” Gabriel broke off, chuckling.

Beelzebub looked at him for a moment, piecing together the joke. Then it fell into place. They let their head fall back onto the beanbag and cackled with laughter. “Look at that, Gabe,” they said, short of breath. “You had a good idea.”

“I’m sure it’ll happen to you someday,” said Gabriel. “Don’t worry, I absolutely will let it go to my head.”

Beezebub was laughing so hard their eyes watered. “The logo can be a little fly. On a honeycomb.”

“Stuck there?”

Their body moved in the closest thing to a shrug that was possible in their current position. “That’s about how it happened. With me and beekeeping.”

Beelzebub’s phone buzzed insect-like on the floor next to the beanbag. They grabbed it, frowned at the lock screen, and then sat up.

“You never did tell me how you got into that,” said Gabriel.

“In a minute.” Beelzebub flicked open their messages from Crowley:

_Hey Beelz_

_ebub_

_My thumb hit send early_

_6 o clock, fine, but at Central Park_

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. Crowley wasn’t quite as stupid as he seemed. If he was, though, there was no way he’d have survived for so long in hell. They replied:

_Where in the park_

“Who’s that?” asked Gabriel. “I didn’t think you had any other friends.”

“It’s Crowley.” They glanced up at Gabriel as his last sentence registered. He didn’t have to include the second-to-last word. “I…don’t.” The phone buzzed again, drawing their attention back down to it.

_By the fountain_

_Which one_

_There’s more than one?_

_By the big lake_

_WHICH ONE_

“You’re not planning to kill him, are you?” said Gabriel.

“Not now. I’ll just see what he has to say.”

_I think it’s got an angel on top_

_Bethesda fountain._

_I guess_

“Try not to go mad with power this time,” Gabriel muttered.

“This time?” Beelzebub glanced up. Was he still upset about what had happened when they went up to heaven in Gabriel’s body? “I was so much taller as you. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Actually commit to not giving away the switch!” said Gabriel. “Do you know how many quips I held back to maintain your stupid sullen silence?”

Beelzebub shut their eyes and let out a breath. “Maybe you should have tried sullen silence when Aziraphale came asking.”

_Don’t bring the angle._

_Angel_

_No, it’s already on the fountain_

_I mean Azitapjake_

_Qziralhale_

_Axiraphske_

_Won’t be a problem, I don’t know anyone by those names_

“Are we really doing this again?” said Gabriel, leaning back in the chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“You brought it up,” said Beelzebub. “Shut up, I’m trying to negotiate here.”

_You know who I mean, the nagel_

_Angle_

_Angel_

_Or my umbrella might accidentally go off._

_Ok no Qziralhale or any of the others_

_Same goes for Gabrieq_

_Oops I missed a letter_

_Spelling is so hard_

Beelzebub ground their teeth. Q was on the opposite end of the keyboard as L. That was entirely intentional. Cutting off Beelzebub’s name earlier probably hadn’t been an accident, either.

“Oh, a _negotiation_ ,” said Gabriel sarcastically. “Most people just call it coordinating schedules.”

“Most people aren’t demons.”

“That’s a weird way to pronounce ‘paranoid.’”

“It’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you,” said Beelzebub. “Wouldn’t expect you to understand. Heaven’s a cakewalk compared to hell.”

_6 o clock, Bethesda fountain in Central Park._

_No angels._

_Except the one on the fountain._

_What about angles?_

_Are angles okay?_

_I was going to bring all these angles_

_Or nagles, what’s your stance on nagles?_

“I didn’t realize it was a competition,” said Gabriel. “You are aware I worked for Michael?”

“I once watched Dagon fillet one of my coworkers and throw him to her pet sharks.

“Well, it isn’t my fault you fell.”

_You were so eager to bring them up earlier_

_Beezfdksjfk are you there_

_Oh no someone help these tiny keyboards are so hard to use_

_Beelzebub_

_Tell me what do I do about the angles and the nagles_

_Should I bring them or not_

Beelzebub tossed the still-buzzing phone onto the floor. “Why would you go there.”

“Bee, I’m just saying—”

“Don’t call me Bee!” Beelzebub was on their feet without realizing they had stood up. “Crowley callzzz me Bee. Hazztur and Ligur and Dagon call me Bee. Not you.”

Gabriel held up his hands. “Beelzebub. Sorry.”

It was too late for sorry. He’d already said it. The only person of Beelzebub’s acquaintance who had never called them by a diminutive nickname, and he’d gone and said it. “I preferred ‘demon,’” they said, heading for the door. “We named the company. I’m going home.”

Crowley made a habit of showing up early to these types of meetings so that he could arrange himself along one end of the bench in the most apathetically aggressive slouch he could come up with. The sunglasses allowed him to look around while appearing to be staring languidly off into the distance. Then, when the person he was meeting with sat down, he would turn his head lazily and pretend he had just noticed. Sometimes he wouldn’t even look at them at all.

He had clearly picked the wrong person to play that game with this time. Even though he reached the park a half hour early, Beelzebub was already waiting for him on a bench facing the fountain. Thankful again for his sunglasses (how had he ever survived hell without them?) Crowley pretended not to notice them and chose a bench at a 90-degree angle to Beelzebub’s. He threw himself into the bench and let his skeleton conform to it, all while firmly ignoring Beelzebub. He glanced their way as discreetly as he could manage.

They were looking straight at him. Those bored, expressionless eyes bored into his soul.

Crowley swallowed. Speaking of sunglasses, he wished Beelzebub were wearing some now. Thanks to his choice of bench, he’d had to move his head just a little to see them, but they would have no doubt noticed the movement. He couldn’t pretend not to have seen them anymore. He turned to face Beelzebub, though behind the sunglasses he avoided meeting their eyes. They’d always had a terrifying stare. Slowly, with as much indifference as he could muster, he nodded. Beelzebub didn’t move.

It took less than two minutes for Crowley to fold. Cursing under his breath, he peeled himself off the bench and made his way over to Beelzebub. “We said six,” he said, sinking onto the bench.

“I was out for a walk,” said Beelzebub, their voice so flat that Crowley couldn’t even tell if they were being sarcastic. “Are you alone?”

“Just me.” He eyed the umbrella in Beelzebub’s hand uneasily.

“This is a regular one,” they said, jabbing it at the overcast sky. “Might rain later. I’m unarmed.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Crowley, hurriedly miracling away the modifications he had made to his own umbrella. Somehow, he was more off-put by how cooperative Beelzebub was being than by all their violence at the cabin on Saturday. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Cut to the chase, Crowley,” they snapped. “You’re the one who wanted to talk. I’m here. Talk.”

Crowley blinked. “Alright. I meant what I said about trying to help you. I mean, thwarting the Great Plan? That takes guts, not to mention a lot of evil, I’m sure. I have no doubt we could argue for—”

“What do you really want?” Beelzebub interrupted. “You were sent here to kill me. Now you know how to. I don’t believe for a second that you’re holding back for anyone’s benefit but your own. So what is it?”

Crowley let out a tiny breath. What was he supposed to say? That he’d met an angel who taught him the true meaning of Christmas, and his frozen heart melted and grew three sizes that day? (Crowley had moved on from binge-watching sitcoms to Christmas specials. The fact that it was August was besides the point.)

“That doesn’t matter,” said Crowley. “I could turn you over now, if you want. Or if I want. But I’m not. That’s going to have to be good enough for you.”

“Like hell it is.”

Crowley glanced over in surprise. A demon, invoking hell’s name in a curse? “Picked up some habits from your buddy Gabriel, have we?”

He waited to see whether Beelzebub would correct him. It still thrilled him to think that an angel and a demon might have any sort of positive relationship. It was, perhaps, not a good sign that he was looking to Beelzebub to validate this hypothesis.

Beelzebub ignored him completely. “Answer the question, Crowley.”

“Why does it matter why I’m doing it?”

They clucked their tongue and shook their head. “I’m just asking questions. I thought you might sympathize.”

Crowley sighed irritably. Beelzebub always had to be in control, didn’t they? Even when Crowley outranked them. Even when it didn’t matter in the slightest. Even for something as trivial as sitting on a bench, and refusing to be the one to stand up. “You’re a real piece of work, you know.”

“Thanks,” said Beelzebub. “You’re a piece of something.”

Crowley’s teeth ground against each other. “Why d’you hate me so much?” he asked. “I’ve always been lenient with you—too much, if you ask Dagon—and all you do is snap at me. What’d I ever do to you?”

“You took my place,” Beelzebub growled through their teeth, suddenly furious. Crowley flinched from the force of their anger. “ _I_ should have been prinzzze. _Me_. Not some weak-willed little snake.”

Was that where it had always come from? Crowley’s stomach churned. Through all those millennia of constant anxiety, never knowing what to do or how to do it, too scared to risk the embarrassment of asking for help, had Beelzebub been looking up at him in envy? “Spare me the jealousy,” said Crowley. “Do you have any idea how lucky you were to get to stay on Earth? Having fun up here while I was stuck in meetings? I’d have swapped with you in a heartbeat.”

“I wish you had,” Beelzebub snapped. They blinked, and then slowly turned to look at Crowley. “It might not be too late.”

Crowley drew a breath and leaned back, away from Beelzebub. They had swapped with Gabriel, and an angel and a demon were probably way less compatible than two demons. They could actually trade places. “You’re not thinking—Are you serious?”

“Are you?” they replied.

The thought of living out the rest of his days on Earth made him giddy. He’d never have to go back downstairs to the riots and chaos currently boiling through all nine levels. Never again would he sit through another hours-long meeting, or struggle with the outdated projectors or mysterious leaks or underspecified and poorly-coordinated bureaucratic procedures. He could stay here. He could drive around in his car and go to the cinema and sample every kind of alcohol that had ever been invented. He could watch Christmas specials during the actual Christmas season, watch a snowfall without the pressures of an imminent return downstairs, maybe even warm his hands on a mug of cocoa while the windows iced over outside. All he had to do was adopt the face of a traitor. Compared to six thousand years of torture, it seemed a small price to pay. “Yesss,” he said, hissing a little in his excitement.

Beelzebub blinked slowly and turned to look back at the fountain. Crowley wanted to grab them and shake them until they said something. Their impassivity was absolutely infuriating. “How do I know,” they said at last, “that you won’t make a call to hell the moment I’m out of view and tell them I’m an imposter?”

Crowley’s hand closed into a fist. So far, it had proved impossible to convince Beelzebub that he could be trusted. “I won’t. What would make you believe me?”

Beelzebub straightened a little. “I want an oath.”

“Er—Okay.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Upon my dishonor as a demon—”

“No, the old-fashioned kind,” said Beelzebub. They held up a knife. Where had they even gotten that? “Our kind.”

Crowley swallowed, but was determined not to be falter. Thinking of all the rock music he had yet to listen to, he nodded.

Beelzebub passed him the knife. He took it, set the blade against his palm, and hesitated. “What’s the exact agreement?”

“That you won’t tell anyone I’m you.” Said Beelzebub. “Or vice versa.”

“Nobody?” said Crowley. “Not even Gabriel?”

Beelzebub glanced off to the side, considering. “Okay. Except Gabriel.”

Crowley nodded. “And Aziraphale.”

“No.”

He sighed. “Why not? He wants to help too, you know.” Granted, his enthusiasm for helping Beelzebub had dwindled since their violent behavior back at the cabin, but Beelzebub didn’t need to know that.

“I don’t trust him,” said Beelzebub, their voice rising. “He’s an angel.”

“So’s Gabriel.”

“Oh, barely,” they scoffed. “Aziraphale was sent here to find out how to kill me.”

“So was I!” Crowley exclaimed.

“You’ll have the oath to hold you to your word,” said Beelzebub. “He won’t.”

Crowley slumped against the bench with a pained sigh. Spending time with Aziraphale while in Beelzebub’s body was out of the question. He was too likely to let something slip and trigger the blood oath. His throat clenched, thinking of that evening at _West Side Story_. He had been looking forward to more of that. “We work together,” said Crowley. “He’ll notice if I just disappear.”

“So?” Beelzebub shrugged. “Send him a note. Lie. He won’t know the difference, so why should he care?”

Crowley chewed his bottom lip. Why, indeed. Any friendship between them could only be one-sided. The angel had been clear about that. Crowley was the one who would suffer. But…maybe this was what he needed. Maybe some time away from the angel would help him get over his little crush. It would be better than following him around and hopelessly pining after him.

“Okay,” he said, only keeping his voice steady with a great deal of effort. He pulled the knife across his palm, leaving behind a thin streak of read. Blood welled up in beads. “I swear, after we switch, I won’t tell anyone about it except Gabriel. And you and me,” he added. He had heard too many stories about demons who got caught in unfortunate technicalities with these sort of binding verbal oaths. It was the reason they’d stopped using them.

Beelzebub took the knife back from him. “And your termzzz?”

“The same,” said Crowley, “and don’t tell them where to find me, or that I—you—can be killed by holy water.”

Beelzebub nodded. “I swear I won’t tell anyone except Gabriel—and you and me—that we’ve switched, or tell anyone downstairs anything that might lead them to you, or help them kill you.”

“Anyone downstairs or upstairs,” Crowley put in, remembering the back channels.

“Or upstairzzz,” Beelzebub repeated impatiently. “Do we have an agreement?”

Crowley nodded. Beelzebub cut their own hand and held it out, and Crowley took it. As they shook to seal the oath, an odd pins-and-needles feeling came over Crowley. His vision went blurry for a second. When it came back, he was looking from a much lower perspective.

“That is weird,” Beelzebub muttered, now in Crowley’s body. They flexed their fingers and bent their arms experimentally. “That’s not like Gabriel’s at all.”

“I zzzhould hope not,” Crowley muttered, and frowned at the buzz that came out of his mouth. “Oh, that’zzz going to take some getting used to.”

It was a disturbing experience to look across the bench and see himself sitting there all tense and sullen and spiteful. Beelzebub did not fit well into Crowley’s skin. Crowley imagined he looked equally misplaced to Beelzebub, which was confirmed when Beelzebub looked over at him, wrinkled their nose in disgust, and said, “Oh, I _hate_ that.”

“Not too late to call it off,” said Crowley.

“No.” Beelzebub drew a deep breath, stood up and stretched their arms. “I can work with thisss.”

Crowley’s eye twitched to see Beelzebub enjoying his extra height. He tried standing up as well, which only made the whole thing worse. _Think of the car, Crowley. Think of smartphones and Netflix and Broadway._ Instead, with a pang, he thought of Aziraphale. He might have to steer clear of Broadway for a little while.

“And if it does go sidewayzzzzzz—” Crowley shook himself to stop the buzzing, “how will we contact each other?”

“We have each other’s numbers.”

Crowley looked at them skeptically. That would be a one-way connection at best, and not in a way that favored him. “You don’t really get phone reception in hell.”

Beelzebub tilted their head, smirking with Crowley’s face. Crowley felt like he was having a nightmare. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.” They turned to leave. “See you in hell someday, Crowley. You know you can’t stay up here forever.”

“Watch me,” Crowley shot back. He waited until Beelzebub was out of sight before he tried walking away. His usual swaying gait didn’t work nearly as well when his arms and legs were this much shorter. And he’d have to pick out a whole new wardrobe to fit this form. This was going to take some time to settle into.

At least Beelzebub wouldn’t have an easy time of it, either. Crowley grinned to himself. He had neglected to warn them about the riots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took five chapters, but hey, a plot!


	6. A Car Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that Crowley and Beelzebub's plan affects other people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's gonna be some angst now. Sorry about that. It may also be worth mentioning that there is no actual car crash in this chapter.
> 
> I just kind of picked random demon names for the princes? They're not actually that important, so

Aziraphale hummed to himself as he prepared for what ought to be a splendid evening. He had reservations at a very well-reviewed sushi place (he’d had his reservations about sushi, but it had far surpassed his expectations) and then a ticket for _The Barber of Seville_. He had only seen an opera once before, during a brief holiday to Earth in the 1600s, and his Italian had been so rusty that he had great difficulty following the story. Nowadays, however, they would apparently display translated lyrics next to the stage. On top of the music, which he already knew to be excellent, he expected this new technology would enhance his experience even further.

He found himself wondering whether Crowley had ever seen an opera. The demon did seem to enjoy music, though perhaps not that kind. Maybe Aziraphale should have extended an invitation when he mentioned it over the phone. But then, it was only last night that they had seen _West Side Story._ Two nights in a row seemed like a lot. And Crowley had acted so strange after the show. He was in such a hurry to leave, and then there was that late-afternoon hangover the next day. Something odd was going on with him.

A loud chime made Aziraphale jump a little as he put on his coat. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to the mobile phone. He pushed his other arm through the sleeve and picked it up from the desk, squinting a little to read the texts that were still rolling in.

_Sorry angel gonna have to cancel for tomorrow morning_

_Heading back downstairs for a bit_

_Well, indefinitely_

_Looks like Beelzey got themselves discorporated_

_There was a car crash_

_Anyway now they’ve got Beelz imprisoned downstairs and my job’s over, so they’ve called me back down_

Aziraphale’s high spirits slowly sank. He sat down in a plush armchair that had been across the room a second ago. The typing ellipses rippled in the corner of the screen for what must have been a few minutes at least. Aziraphale swallowed. His heart thumped very strangely while he waited for whatever essay Crowley appeared to be writing.

_Well, cheers_

He tried to scroll down, but there was nothing else there. Was that it? Just when they had gotten a good system going, Crowley was going to leave? He propped his arm against the side of the chair and leaned his head against his fingertips. He supposed it didn’t change much, besides taking their semi-weekly meetings off his schedule. He was still here on Earth, and he could still do what he’d come for. He could still enjoy the food and museums and music. Just…by himself.

Why did that disappoint him so much? He enjoyed Crowley’s company, but he hadn’t known him for that long. Things wouldn’t be that different with him gone. He still had plenty of friends. There was Gabriel, although he was always sort of a lot to deal with. There were Uriel and Sandalphon…although Aziraphale suspected they shared jokes at his expense when he wasn’t around. And…well, he couldn’t really consider Michael a friend. But there were plenty of others.

Except he’d only ever really felt relaxed around Crowley. Maybe it was the knowledge that nothing he said would ever circulate back to Michael. That was probably it.

It occurred to Aziraphale that he probably ought to answer. He started to type:

_Crowley,_

_Sorry to hear about Beelzebub_

Then frowned and deleted it. There didn’t seem much call for sympathy considering that the two demons clearly weren’t close. Plus, Aziraphale couldn’t say with complete honesty that he was sorry they’d been discorporated. They had shot Crowley before even opening the door.

_I suppose that makes your job easier._

No, that seemed a little insensitive. He deleted that too. Beelzebub had died, and some human had probably damaged their car and gotten hurt as well.

_You’ve probably been eager to return home_

Really? Crowley’s home was literally hell. Plus, he had owned a car here. He’d been anything but impatient to leave, unless you counted the way he’d practically run away after the show ended last night. What _had_ that been about?

_I’m sorry to hear that. It’s been a pleasure working with you._

He couldn’t say that. An angel wasn’t supposed to say that to a demon. He grimaced self-consciously, realizing that each additional moment he spent deleting and retyping, Crowley would see the ellipses in the corner. He had spent far too long dithering about it. There really wasn’t much response required on his part. Just some sort of acknowledgement.

_Crowley,_

_Then I suppose this is goodbye. Perhaps_

But there was no “perhaps” about it. Angels and demons did not work with each other outside of very special circumstances. Crowley was gone, and Aziraphale was not likely to see him again on amiable terms. He prayed they would not meet again someday as enemies. He deleted the “perhaps,” added,

_Regards, Aziraphale_

and, shutting his eyes like he was about to jump from a very high cliff, hit send. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, set the phone on the table in front of him, and rubbed his temples with both hands. That was done. Now, if he could manage to get to his feet, he had a dinner to eat, and an opera to attend. His knees felt weaker than he remembered, but he forced himself to his feet. With more effort than it should have taken, he pulled himself together and tried to push Crowley from his mind. He was going to have a lovely evening like he’d planned, or he would discorporate himself trying.

Beelzebub wasn’t sure how to tell Gabriel. They probably could have worked it out if they just took the time to sit down and think about it. And they would, later. After they went back downstairs and inspected their brand-new legions, glared down at Hastur and Ligur from their new height, and barked some orders at Dagon the way they had always fantasized about doing. Just a few hours enjoying their new position, and then they’d pop back up and give Gabe a call. They’d want some good stories before they told him the news, after all.

Beelzebub had never really gotten the chance to properly see off their old head office. The last time they were downstairs, they hadn’t known it was going to be the last time. Gabriel had been there more recently than they had. He was the one who got to gloat to all of Beelzebub’s old bosses and coworkers. It didn’t seem fair. On the other hand, Beelzebub had gotten to terrify Michael, so maybe they had gotten the better end of the deal.

A dull roar grew as the elevator descended, and when the doors opened, a wave of noise assaulted Beelzebub’s ears. Maybe it was their time away, but it seemed even louder and more chaotic than usual. The smell was just as bad, though. The constant crowd of demons churned through the hall in front of them, but they shuffled respectfully out of the way when Beelzebub stepped forward, and the new prince of hell walked through as if the hallway was empty. Walked, not whatever it was that Crowley always did. As important as it was to keep up the charade, some things, like Beelzebub’s last shred of dignity, were more important.

Hell hadn’t improved since Beelzebub had been away. If anything, it was in worse shape than before. Some of the walls were battered and crumbling, and a few of the bloodstains looked fresh. In one of the shared office spaces, a pipe had burst in the ceiling and was flooding the area with something that definitely wasn’t water. One of the doors leading to Dagon’s office had been ripped off its hinges and leaned haphazardly in the resulting gap. Beelzebub paused to look at it blankly. What had happened?

“Lord Crowley.”

Beelzebub turned to see Dagon herself hurrying towards them. “You’ve returned.” She didn’t sound particularly pleased about that.

Beelzebub nodded and glanced pointedly at the broken door. “Have some trouble with your door?”

Dagon scowled, but didn’t cut Beelzebub off the way she always had before. “The Dark Council are meeting now. I hope you have good news.” She glanced around and added, “Though you don’t seem to have the traitor with you.”

“They won’t be a problem anymore,” said Beelzebub, attempting one of Crowley’s grins. “I’ll just go reclaim my seat, shall I?”

“Don’t take the main hall,” said Dagon. “The minotaur’s taken it over. Go down to level three, then cross the lake of blood and circle around the back way.”

“…Right.” Beelzebub considered asking what was going on, but didn’t want to risk asking a question Crowley should already know the answer to. “By the way,” they said, “If your office is so broken, what sort of a state is mine in?”

Dagon’s eyebrows rose. “Maybe you should see for yourself.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like it.” Beelzebub couldn’t tell how much of their customary empty stare was getting through Crowley’s eyes, but Dagon’s usual authoritative attitude seemed to be flagging.

She swallowed and returned a restrained fraction of Beelzebub’s glare. “It’s a disaster.”

Beelzebub maintained their stare, cold and disinterested, but somehow all the more threatening. “Then you’d better get that cleaned up.”

Dagon glanced away, visibly uncomfortable but fighting to hide it. “Yes.”

“Yes, Lord Crowley,” Beelzebub corrected.

“Yes, _Lord Crowley_ ,” Dagon repeated.

Beelzebub bared their teeth in a grin. “It would be a shame,” they said, “if you wasted any time doing that.”

“Yes,” said Dagon, with a tense nod. “Lord Crowley.” They left, casting one last look at Beelzebub, half-nervous and half-confused. Beelzebub’s grin stretched wider. This is what they were meant for. People around here were going to have to start taking “Crowley” a lot more seriously.

As Beelzebub continued down the hallway, they heard what sounded like the sounds of fighting around a corner up ahead. No doubt that was why Dagon had suggested the detour. Those were the sort of sounds they usually only heard on level seven, where they tortured former violent criminals. Though plenty of them were still violent criminals. It turned out that some habits did carry over into the afterlife.

The detour was about four times longer than the regular path had been, but soon Beelzebub stood in front of the massive doors that led into the council chamber. At last, they had their own seat on the other side. They had dreamed of this moment almost since the Fall. Of course, in those dreams, they had never been in the body of a lanky snake-demon about to lie through their teeth to the other six princes of hell. With a shiver, Beelzebub reached up with both hands and pushed the doors open.

Behind the doors, six demons were shouting at each other around a table. A few chairs were lying on their sides near the walls like they had been thrown. One was broken. “For the last time, Asmodeus,” Leviathan roared, her braids whipping around like tentacles as she stamped on the table, “We are not going to—”

She broke off and turned to look at Beelzebub. They cracked what they hoped looked like one of Crowley’s half-sarcastic smiles of greeting. “Hey, guys. Mind if I join?”

“Crowley.” Leviathan growled, frowning down from atop the table. “Have you finally found the traitor?”

Beelzebub strode in (still refusing to use Crowley’s absurd saunter), picked up one of the chairs from the edge of the room, and calmly sat down. “In a manner of speaking.”

Mammon scoffed and rolled his bulging, glassy eyes. “You’d better have good news for us.”

Belial snickered. “That’d be a first.”

Beelzebub nodded, looking around at all of them without moving their head. None of the other princes were sitting, and they towered over Beelzebub, but they were used to that perspective. “Beelzebub’s dead,” they said evenly. “There was some sort of a row with that rogue angel, and the holy water came out, and…” they flicked their fingers in a little wave. “We won’t have to worry about them anymore.”

For a moment, the other princes just stared at him. Then Asmodeus planted their face in their hand. “Figures.”

Beelzebub blinked hard. That was not the reaction they had expected.

“We must have told you twenty times, Crowley,” Belphegor growled in his low, volcanic voice, “You were supposed to bring them back _alive_. Now how are we supposed to set an example for the revolting demons?”

“Y’mean the rioting ones,” muttered Mammon. “They’re all revolting.”

Beelzebub’s heart sank, but their gaze remained steady. “Well, excussse me for not jumping in front of the holy water.” Making excuses for failure was probably right up Crowley’s alley, but this was not how Beelzebub had hoped to start their reign as prince. “If you’re going to be unfriendly about it, I don’t see why I need to stick around.” They got to their feet and turned to leave.

“No you don’t, Crowley,” called Leviathan. “You’ve spent enough time gallivanting around topside. Time for you to do your job down here with the rest of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Beelzebub, itching to leave the situation, “Only, the rogue angel’s still on the loose up there—”

“Since when was that our problem?” rumbled Belphegor.

Beelzebub swallowed. They were right, of course. “Crowley” ought to leave Gabriel for Aziraphale to deal with. But if they couldn’t come up with an excuse to get back to Earth, they wouldn’t be able to let Gabriel know where they’d gone. Their mind racing, they waved a hand with an attempt at Crowley’s breezy nonchalance. “It’ll just be a quick trip. The angel I’ve been working with needed a bit of hellfire for—”

The other princes were all scowling at them. “Again,” said Asmodeus, “How is that your problem? You got what you wanted from the bargain. Your work’s done.”

“Ah.” Beelzebub flashed a grin, mentally scrambling around for another excuse. They came up empty-handed. “…That would seem to be the case.”

“You’re not wriggling out of work this time,” said Leviathan, finally stepping down from the table. “Your work up there may be done, but down here it’s just getting started.”

Out of habit, Beelzebub wiped all emotion from their face and sat back down. It looked like they’d managed to get themselves stuck in hell. Gabriel was going to kill them. “Great,” they said without enthusiasm. “Where do I start?”

Beelzebub was ignoring Gabriel’s calls. He might have been annoyed if he wasn’t so busy wondering what was going on with them. Sure, the demon hadn’t been in a great mood at the end of their last conversation, but Beelzebub was rarely in a great mood. He couldn’t think of anything he’d said that might have set them off. Was calling them “Bee” really that bad? So he had slipped up once in six thousand years, big deal. Or were they still angry about the whole telling-Crowley-and-Aziraphale thing? Gabriel thought they had calmed down about that. They’d been texting Crowley last time he talked to them. At least the two of them were on non-shooting terms now.

Plus, they were supposed to be getting a business plan together, now that they had finally settled on a name. Gabriel had gone home and put his limited art skills to work sketching a few logo ideas, but when he sent them to Beelzebub, they left him on read. His next few texts hadn’t even been delivered, and Beelzebub’s phone was going straight to voicemail. Maybe, he concluded after a few days of this, something had happened to Beelzebub’s phone—Except, wait, they could easily have found another way to contact him. Whatever this was, it was intentional.

Well, Gabriel was sick of it. If Beelzebub had a problem with him, they could say it straight to his face. They never had a problem doing that before. He dropped by their cabin to pressure some sort of explanation out of them, but Beelzebub wasn’t there. The bees were, though, buzzing around their hives with what Gabriel was convinced was a threatening tone. The demon would come back to check on the bees eventually. Gabriel waited around for an hour before he gave up, scribbled a pointed note directly onto the wood of the table, and went home.

Still no word from Beelzebub. They weren’t there the second time Gabriel went back, either, which seemed strange. Where else could they possibly have to be? Their only hobbies that he was aware of were beekeeping, which they couldn’t do without the bees; eating honey by the spoonful, for which they would need access to their absurd honey stockpile; and tormenting Gabriel, which they clearly weren’t doing. Unless this was all some sort of elaborate trick to get on his nerves. But, no, if Beelzebub wanted to prank him they’d have stuck around to see his reaction.

He waited the whole afternoon this time, but Beelzebub still didn’t show. They probably knew he was here and were avoiding him on purpose. But why? Was an explanation too much to ask for? He miracled one of the walls white, summoned a paintbrush and a can of violet paint, and wrote “What is your problem” across the entire wall. Then he left.

Still, he heard nothing. This was getting ridiculous. If Beelzebub would just tell him what they were so upset about, maybe he could apologize. If he felt like it. At this point, it all seemed so blown out of proportion that he wasn’t sure he would, but it would have been nice to have the option.

“Beelzebub?” he shouted, when he went back the third time. “I know you’re here. Look, how am I supposed to know what this is about if you’re not gonna—”

He stopped, his eyes lighting on a spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling. Beelzebub hated spiders. They would never let one live in the cabin long enough to settle down and build a home, and yet the web’s resident was spinning diligently away without a care.

Gabriel sat down in one of Beelzebub’s plain wooden chairs. The demon must have been away from home for at least several days. But they had left the bees behind. They would never leave the bees behind, unless something was very, very wrong. Like if they were in danger. Or it was already too late.

He felt sick. Beelzebub had been texting Crowley during their last conversation. Crowley, who Gabriel had told about the switch, even though Beelzebub didn’t trust him. And now Beelzebub had disappeared. If something happened to Beelzebub, it would be his fault.

If. He didn’t know yet. Maybe they had just gone on the run, and there hadn’t been time to warn Gabriel, or they decided it was safer if he didn’t know where they’d gone. He had to find out what had happened. Maybe that fluffy little clerk Aziraphale would know. Gabriel fumbled with his lock screen and called him. It rang for what seemed like too long a time before Aziraphale picked up. “Hello, Gabriel?”

“Yes, hi,” said Gabriel. His voice sounded thin, forced. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help much. “Um—”

“Oh, that’s right—I said I’d get back to you if I found anything.” The angel sounded frazzled. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have waited so long. To be honest, I’ve only looked through a small bit of the handbook, but I’ll get right on it. Not to worry. There must be something—”

“That’s fine, Aziraphale,” Gabriel interrupted. Aziraphale had bought his entire story about wanting to save humanity. He would have felt bad about lying and putting Aziraphale to all the trouble if it hadn’t been his life on the line. “There was something else I wanted to ask.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale stopped a moment to catch his breath. He’d been talking rather fast.

“About Beelzebub.”

“Oh.” Gabriel didn’t like Aziraphale’s tone. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I ought to have told—”

“What happened?” asked Gabriel, gripping the phone. “Where are they?” They had to be somewhere. They couldn’t be…nowhere.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Perhaps we’d better talk in person,” said Aziraphale. “Are you at home?”

Gabriel snapped his fingers, and a moment later he was. The phone crackled a little as it recovered from being wrenched through the fabric of space. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Can’t you just tell me—”

Aziraphale had already hung up. Gabriel dropped the phone on the table. He’d accidentally taken Beelzebub’s chair with him. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he rested his elbows on the table, clutched his hands together, and pressed his knuckles against his forehead. His stomach writhed. If he’d ever eaten anything in his life, he’d have thought all of it was about to come back up. If Beelzebub was gone, permanently, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. They’d been there since the beginning. It wouldn’t be right, somehow. But if that wasn’t the case, why would Aziraphale have sounded the way he did on the phone?

The doorbell rang after an interminable wait. Gabriel straightened and took a deep breath, pulling himself together. “It’s unlocked.”

It wasn’t, but Aziraphale unlocked it anyway and peeked inside. He was wearing an anxious, sympathetic expression and carrying a white paper box that looked like it came from a bakery. “Hello, Gabriel,” he said, with so much pity that Gabriel nearly kicked him out of the apartment then and there. He held up the box. “cupcake?”

“I don’t eat,” he snapped.

“Oh—That’s right. I forgot.” Aziraphale set the box on the kitchen counter and tentatively approached the table. “Um…How have you been?”

“Well, Beelzebub’s missing,” said Gabriel through clenched teeth. “And you won’t tell me where they are. So not great, Aziraphale.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel.”

“For _what?_ Just say it already.” Gabriel paused to take a breath before he went on. “Crowley got them, didn’t he? Got some holy water as soon as I told him, and—I never should have told you two—” His eyes were stinging in a way he couldn’t stand. He looked down to rub the salt out of them.

“No, no.” Aziraphale jumped up and hurried over to Gabriel like he meant to comfort him, but then stopped, apparently not sure how. “Not Crowley. It was an accident. There was a—a car crash.”

Gabriel stopped, blinked, and rubbed his eyes a little more before looking up at Aziraphale. “They’re discorporated?”

Aziraphale seemed to be making a great deal of effort to maintain eye contact with Gabriel, and was not doing a very good job. “I’m afraid so.”

“That’s it?” Gabriel laughed. “I thought they were _gone_. They’ve been discorporated before.”

Aziraphale swallowed and shut his eyes for a moment before continuing. “Yes, but you see, Gabriel, they, they’re…they’re in hell.”

The relieved smile slowly dissolved off Gabriel’s face. Now that hell had them prisoner, Beelzebub would not be able to get back to Earth.

“Crowley won’t tell them about the holy water, I don’t think,” said Aziraphale. “They’re still alive, I’m sure, just…not on Earth.”

“Oh.” Gabriel swallowed, fighting to keep his face even. The demon was gone. They were not coming back. He took a shuddering breath. “I see.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Gabriel snapped. Aziraphale was probably glad Beelzebub had died. “I bet you and Crowley planned this,” Gabriel muttered at the table. “Show up, gain both our trust, then smash a car into Beelzebub. You should have gotten both of us at the same time.”

“This is absolutely not my doing, Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, his voice rising in pitch. “I wish it had never happened. Honestly, I do.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to snap at him again, then shut it when he saw the look on his face. He meant it. “You didn’t even know them.”

Aziraphale sighed and slumped a little into the chair. “Well, no. Not Beelzebub.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure what that meant. Not that it mattered. He was still trying to wrap his mind around an Earth without Beelzebub constantly trying to annoy him. Where he couldn’t just drop by the cabin for a round of verbal sparring when he was bored. Where nobody showed up to his apartment unannounced, broke down the door, and then replaced all the furniture with hideous sacks of plastic beads. The grey paintings on the wall caught his eye, and something caught in his throat. Horrified, he squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t.

And then he was. He couldn’t help it anymore. It was all so stupid. The two of them had gone to so much trouble, put together a foolproof plan, even somehow gotten Aziraphale and Crowley over to their side, and it all came apart because of a _car crash_.

“Alright.” Aziraphale drew his chair next to Gabriel and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “There, there.”

“How the heaven is that supposed to help?” he burst out.

Aziraphale flinched a little at the blasphemy. “I don’t know. What would you suggest I do?”

“Well, don’t stay here and watch me cry!”

“I’m not going to leave you to cry by yourself,” said Aziraphale. “I know this can’t be easy for you.”

“Oh, you don’t know anything.” Gabriel held up a finger. “I had one friend, Aziraphale. One. Now they’re gone.”

Aziraphale withdrew his hand. “One? But—Oh.”

“Six thousand years,” said Gabriel, gritting his teeth, “is a long time.” As much as he tried to suppress the sobs, they still cracked through his voice. “Wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Aziraphale fiddled with his hands and looked around at the walls. “I understand that Beelzebub was important to you,” he said. “And I know what that’s like to lose.”

Gabriel didn’t want to sit here and listen to this. He didn’t need Aziraphale standing there with that sickeningly sympathetic expression, pretending he knew what it was like to find out that your enemy-turned-friend of six thousand years was never coming back. It wasn’t fair to the angel, he knew. Aziraphale was just trying to help. That was the problem. He was always trying to help when that was the last thing Gabriel wanted. He snapped his fingers to change into a tracksuit. “I’m going for a run.”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked like that was the last thing he had expected to hear. “Now? Why?”

“It clears my head.” Gabriel was already heading for the door. “You can stay here if you want. I don’t care.” He left before Aziraphale could say another word.


	7. Crowley's Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley bumps into someone, Gabriel goes for a very long run, and at least one character finds out what is actually going on. Nobody is happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a lot more angst, actually. I'm a terrible person. I think it'll be uphill from here, though.

Crowley wished he’d thought of doing this centuries ago. He felt like he belonged on Earth, with all the fast cars, loud music, and neon lights. He drank so much he blacked out every night that week, just because he could. And partially because Beelzebub’s body couldn’t handle quite as much alcohol as his old one could. And also partially because it kept him from thinking about certain other things, or people.

But he was still having a blast. If life as a traitor was this much fun, he could see why Beelzebub had abandoned hell. He had never noticed before how much time he had spent making himself look busy or re-wording reports to sound like he had done much more than he actually did, not to mention all the dull-as-rock meetings he didn’t have to go to anymore. He spent a good amount of time just driving around with no destination, blaring music, honking as loudly and obnoxiously as possible, cutting people off, and driving in all the wrong lanes, sometimes all at once. New York traffic was the worst. Everyone was furious all the time. Crowley loved it.

Now that he had time, he might even be able to see more of the country. He could take a road trip down the East Coast, maybe stop by Washington D.C. and find out what exactly was everybody’s problem around there. Each successive news report about the U.S. government fascinated him more. He didn’t remember Beelzebub having a hand in it, and he couldn’t figure out how the humans had made such a mess of things without any demonic help. Plus, while he was there, he could see the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Clever humans, getting into space. Not very far into space, comparatively, but still admirable.

Crowley turned left across three lanes of traffic and wondered whether he ought to move out of New York City entirely. The idea didn’t appeal to him much. Even if he did travel, it would be nice to have somewhere to come back to. Maybe sticking around for other demons to find him wasn’t the best idea, but he liked it here. There was always something happening. And it had been almost five hours since he had last thought about Aziraphale, so that wouldn’t be too much of a problem.

Oh, bugger, there he went again. Now he had to start counting again.

The cars ahead of him were at a standstill, and Crowley found himself boxed in while he waited for the light to change. Reluctantly, he hit the brake. He had been trying to do that as little as possible. One thumb drummed on the steering wheel in time to the beat of a Led Zeppelin song. Well, mostly in time. Crowley, and demons in general, didn’t have the best sense of rhythm.

He might not have heard the knock on the window if it hadn’t happened to come during a brief pause in the instrumentals. Crowley glanced up, and then froze. Aziraphale was peering through the window.

Crowley stared at him, too shocked to breathe. It occurred to him very suddenly that he hadn’t seen Aziraphale in person since _West Side Story_. And now—well, for one thing, Aziraphale looked at him and saw Beelzebub. For another, Beelzebub was supposed to be dead.

He forced himself to blink. It was too late to pretend Aziraphale hadn’t seen him. Maybe, he thought desperately, the angel had forgotten about the supposed car crash. He clicked off the music and rolled down the window. “Can I help you?” he said in his best imitation of Beelzebub’s deadpan drone.

“Er—Hi,” said Aziraphale, with a little wave, keeping as much distance between himself and the Tesla as he could manage with another car in the lane behind him. “Aziraphale. We’ve met before. Sorry to bother you, it’s just—Crowley told me you were discorporated.”

So he hadn’t forgotten. It was a long shot, anyway. Discorporation was the sort of thing people tended to remember. Crowley looked down at himself—though he still didn’t quite think of Beelzebub’s body as “himself”—and raised his eyebrows. “Guess he got it wrong.”

“He said he was called back to hell,” Aziraphale went on. “If you aren’t down there, then why…er, why…”

The stoplight changed, and Aziraphale jumped and took a step forward as the car behind him started to move. Someone behind Crowley leaned into their horn. A few more drivers joined in.

Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. “Look, juzzzt…” He leaned over and unlocked the door. “Just get in.”

“I—Pardon?”

“I can’t keep blocking the road,” said Crowley. “Get in, or…” he waved his hand with as much of Beelzebub’s bored dismissiveness as he could. “Or leave me alone.” It wasn’t easy being rude to Aziraphale. Hopefully the angel would leave soon.

Aziraphale swallowed, and for a second seemed about to take the second option, but then he opened the door and stepped into the car. Crowley swallowed, nodded, and gunned the accelerator to speed through the light. Aziraphale sucked in his breath, and Crowley fought back a mischievous grin. He’d almost forgotten how much the angel hated his driving. He’d also almost forgotten how much fun it was to mess with him.

“So—Crowley.”

“Hm?” Crowley answered, forgetting himself.

“Where is Crowley?” said Aziraphale. “Obviously you’re not in hell, and surely they’d have noticed that by now and sent him back up to find you. What really happened?”

Crowley couldn’t think of a good answer. He resisted the habitual urge to stutter around for words and opted for a shrug.

The car swerved around a corner. Aziraphale grabbed onto the handle on the car ceiling and flattened himself against the seat. “Do _all_ demons drive like this?”

“Uh—no,” said Crowley without properly thinking through the answer. He should have known Aziraphale would recognize his driving style. “Just, uhh…heard angelzzz hate this.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale muttered, irritated.

Crowley chanced a glance at Aziraphale, but the angel’s brow was drawn in thought, his eyes narrowed. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you about Crowley,” said Crowley, because it was true. “Probably just got it wrong. He was always a bit of an idiot.” Which was also true.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to have heard him. He was looking around the dashboard with a crease in his forehead that Crowley didn’t like the look of. “This car,” he said in clipped tones, “is very much like Crowley’s.”

Crowley’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Why hadn’t he ditched the car? He could have had another one easily, only he was too much of a pinhead to have thought of that. “Izz it?” he said without looking at Aziraphale. “Us demonzzz have similar taste, I guess.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything for a moment. Crowley’s phone started to ring. “Ah, hang on a sec.” Half-watching the road, he fished around the cup holders for his phone and glanced at it. The name there made him slam on the brakes.

His eyes flicked from the phone to Aziraphale. The angel’s hand shook as he pressed the “end call” button. Crowley met his eyes reluctantly, wishing he still had his sunglasses, and his heart thudded to the bottom of his ribcage. He might have expected a lot of different expressions on Aziraphale’s face. What he didn’t expect was rage. “What did you do to him?”

“Uhh…” Crowley had never seen Aziraphale angry before. It was all wrong. Aziraphale should be soft as a loaf of warm bread, smiling in delight at some sugary confection or a particularly good wine. Not angry. Never angry. Crowley forced a roguish grin to hide how frightened he was. “You got me,” he said jokingly. “I ate Crowley, stole hizzz stuff, and took over his life. You have to admit, it’s a nice car.”

They were still stopped in the middle of the road. Cars honked as they swerved around the Tesla, but Crowley was too distracted by the fury growing Aziraphale’s eyes. “You…you monster,” Aziraphale hissed.

Crowley flinched.

Those eyes, which were usually so clear, burned into him. “He was going to help you. When he gets back, he won’t be so kind.”

“Nahh, he’s not coming back,” said Crowley, tearing his eyes from Aziraphale and burying his fear and guilt under a façade of carelessness. He’d had a lot of practice at that over the millennia. “Won’t bother me again.”

Aziraphale’s voice cracked. “ _What?_ ”

Oh, he had said the wrong thing. Crowley glanced at him sidelong in a way that would have been hidden if he’d still had on his glasses, and caught a glimpse of blue eyes shining with a horrible new wetness. Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

“W-wait,” Crowley stuttered, as Aziraphale opened the car door. “No, I didn’t—angel, wait—”

Aziraphale slammed the door so hard that a spiderweb of cracks appeared in the window and hurried through the street, paying no mind to the oncoming traffic. Crowley stopped the cars with a few hurried miracles before they came close to hitting him. Just before Aziraphale disappeared around the corner, Crowley saw him lift a sleeve to wipe his eyes.

His heart was slamming into his ribcage so hard it might bruise. He slammed his forehead down on the car horn. _You monster_. Yeah, Aziraphale had gotten that one right. _You made the best angel in the world cry._

Aziraphale was crying for _him_.

Aziraphale was crying _because_ of him. He should never have taken Beelzebub’s deal. It was a stupid, impulsive mistake. He’d even thought about it at the time, he just hadn’t thought it would hurt Aziraphale as well as him. For Satan’s sake, he’d made it sound like Crowley had been obliterated. What was he thinking? And now Aziraphale was crying.

Crying for _him_.

Well, that hardly mattered now, didn’t it? Even if Aziraphale did care enough to actually mourn him, Crowley wasn’t “Crowley” anymore. And he’d never be able to tell the angel the truth because he couldn’t manage to out-negotiate Beelzebub. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered, slamming his head repeatedly into the horn. Even if he could swap back to his old body, he’d just about proven that he shouldn’t be around the angel. Aziraphale deserved better. For a start, he deserved a friend who wouldn’t disappear on him and then accidentally fake his own death.

Crowley raised his head from the steering wheel and drew a deep breath. First and foremost, the angel needed to know he wasn’t dead. He wouldn’t believe “Beelzebub,” but maybe he’d believe Gabriel. Since he couldn’t talk to anyone else about the switch, that was his only chance. His movements stiff, he released the brake and slammed the accelerator, driving even more recklessly than usual towards Gabriel’s apartment.

Gabriel had not stopped running since Aziraphale had told him the news. He kept thinking that maybe, if he just ran for long enough, the endorphins would finally push all the bad thoughts out of his brain like they usually did. Beelzebub had been discorporated before, hadn’t they? There was that century-long stretch after Gabriel’s reassignment to heaven had been mysteriously canceled, after which the demon had shown up and proposed their no-discorporation pact. That had been fine. Actually, things had been great with them gone. Gabriel could finally get some real work done.

Well, but Beelzebub had come back. This time that was much less likely. There could only be a bad ending to this scenario, whether it was an eternity of torture in hell or Beelzebub’s complete destruction. For all he knew, they had already been melted into a puddle of goo.

He drew a sharp breath and tried to focus on running. That would make the thoughts go away eventually. It just hadn’t been long enough yet.

It had been four days.

His phone rang in his pocket, startling him. He lost his rhythm and nearly tripped. Righting himself just in time, he let his steps slow and eventually stop. Blood rushed into his head, and the world seemed to keep rushing by without him. It felt wrong not to be moving.

Aziraphale was calling him. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for another of the angel’s sympathy sessions, although since running hadn’t managed to distract him, it wasn’t as if he’d be losing any progress by returning to the painful topic of Beelzebub. He picked up. “Aziraphale, hi,” he said, a little out of breath, but not as much as one would have expected him to be after running for nearly a hundred hours straight.

“I take back all of my sympathy.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded strange. Too high, and clogged with something. “Your awful little friend—”

“What?” Maybe it was all the blood pooling in his head, but this seemed to have come out of nowhere.

“—Beelzebub. That horrible demon _killed_ him.”

“I don’t need a reminder—” Gabriel blinked. “Wait, ‘him’?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale choked.

“Beelzebub killed him?” That did made sense. Demons probably killed each other all the time, and it was just like Beelzebub to take their attacker down with them. Still, though, discorporation was a lot worse for a wanted traitor than for a prince of hell. “So? He’ll get a new body and be back in a few decades.”

“Not discorporated. _Gone_. For good.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. Beelzebub had violent tendencies, sure, but that seemed extreme.

“Did you give it to them?” Aziraphale asked.

“Did I what?”

“Did you give Beelzebub holy water? Did you…plan this, between the two of you?”

“No!” Gabriel practically shouted. “Why would I—I didn’t plot to murder Crowley! Did it occur to you that it might have been self-defense?”

A shocked pause on the other end of the line. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, come on. A car crash got Beelzebub?” Gabriel snapped. “Crowley told you that, right? I bet he never specified whose car it was.”

“How dare you imply—No, that was another lie from Beelzebub. They stole Crowley’s phone and texted me from there, probably so I wouldn’t go asking questions. I caught them driving around New York in his car. What kind of unhinged—”

“Beelzebub’s alive?” Gabriel interrupted. “You saw them?”

“Yes, I saw them,” snapped Aziraphale. “With all Crowley’s things. Even some of his clothes. What is wrong with them?”

All the horrible feelings Gabriel had been trying to bury with adrenaline were suddenly washed by a surge of anger. “Beelzebub’s alive, and they didn’t tell me? And you,” he said, holding the phone in front of him so he could glare at it. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, though he didn’t sound it, “but I was a bit hung up on the _murder_. I thought you might already know.”

“Of course I didn’t know!” Aziraphale had watched him cry about it, for Someone’s sake. He had cried about something that hadn’t actually happened, and then run for four days straight for absolutely no reason. And Beelzebub had just let him. “Where are they?” he asked. “I’ll kill them.”

Aziraphale, to his surprise, did not try to stop him. “I don’t know. Probably in that dreadful little cabin with all the bugs, if they haven’t already moved into Crowley’s empty apartment. If I’d known Beelzebub was some kind of psychopath—”

Gabriel snapped his fingers to teleport back to his apartment. It took more effort than he had expected. How far had he run? Aziraphale’s voice was drowned in a brief crackle of static before it resolved again into, “—have bothered, honestly they probably deserve everything downstairs was planning to do to them. Yes, I know they’re your friend, Gabriel, but I stand by it. I am honestly shocked that you would support such a—”

“Oh my God, Aziraphale, I didn’t know they were going to kill Crowley,” Gabriel snapped. “They said they were going to talk. And we’re not friends.” Friends didn’t fake their own death without bothering to warn you. Friends certainly didn’t abandon a joint business venture without a word. It really wasn’t like Beelzebub at all. Whatever was going on with them—

His thoughts were interrupted by someone pounding on the door. “Gabriel, you in there?” called a familiar voice. “I can hear you. Open up, for hell’zzz sake, this is important.”

Typical of Beelzebub to show up now, after he’d spent over a week trying to track them down. At least this gave him an opportunity to tell the demon exactly what he thought of them. “Gotta go, Aziraphale,” he said, and hung up. “Beelzebub, you piece of shit,” he shouted, vaulting over to the door. “You’d better have a good explanation—”

He opened the door and broke off. The impassive mask Beelzebub almost always wore was gone. They were distraught. “Finally,” they said. “It’s been hourzzz. Where’ve you been? Why don’t you use the door like a normal person?”

“Where have _I_ been?” Gabriel barked a sharp laugh. “You’ve got some nerve! You disappeared for a week. You left the bees—Aziraphale told me you were dead!”

“No, no, I’m not,” said Beelzebub, waving their hands with an uncharacteristic amount of expressiveness. “You’ve got to tell him I’m not—Bees? What beezzz—Oh, Satan.” They stopped and rubbed their face with both hands. “Beelzebub didn’t tell you.”

“No,” said Gabriel in his most obvious tone. “And if ‘Beelzebub’ doesn’t explain right now, I’m going to make them _wish_ they’d actually died.”

“I’m not Beelzzzebub, you idiot,” the demon snapped. “I’m Crowley. We swapped.”

Gabriel blinked hard. He had been through so many emotions in the past few days that whatever generated them must have been exhausted. He couldn’t decide how to react. If the two demons had switched places, it would certainly explain the newfound expressiveness. “Why would you do that?”

“Uh…” Beelzebub—no, not Beelzebub, Crowley—looked around. “Can we talk inside?”

Still a little numb, Gabriel stepped aside. Beelzebub—Crowley—sauntered inside and flopped down on a chair, not in the tired, slumping was Beelzebub always did, but with a choreographed carelessness and flair that definitely didn’t belong to Beelzebub. “That’s not right,” Gabriel muttered, shutting the door.

“Yeah, I’m not a huge fan, either,” said Crowley, throwing an arm that was not quite long enough for it over the back of the chair. “But, y’know, if I get to stay on Earth. And Beelzzz gets their own legion in hell, like they’ve always wanted. We figured it was win-win.”

Gabriel sat down as well, in case that would help him process all this. It didn’t. “They went back to hell?”

Crowley nodded and gave him a quizzical look. “They really didn’t tell you any of this?”

“Not a word.” Gabriel ground his teeth. His hands itched to punch Beelzebub.

“We made a blood oath not to give each other away,” said Crowley. “Except to you, ‘cause I guess you’re the only person they truzzzt—”

“Clearly not.”

“—Only now,” Crowley went on, straightening, “It’s all gone sideways. Azzziraphale thinks I’m dead.”

“ _I_ thought you were dead.”

“No, not Beelzebub, _me._ And I can’t tell him because of the stupid oath, and he’d never believe me now he thinks I’m a murderer. You’ve got to tell him,” Crowley swallowed. “He wazzz—he was crying.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, then shut it. Why would Crowley care so much if Aziraphale cried? He was just some angel. Sure, an angel and demon friendship wasn’t so hard for Gabriel to comprehend, but it had taken six millennia for he and Beelzebub to come around to it, and Crowley and Aziraphale had practically just met. “Why?” he asked. “You like him, or something?”

Something flickered behind Crowley’s eyes—Beelzebub’s eyes?—No, Beelzebub’s would never have allowed that kind of emotion to appear there “Something like that,” he muttered.

Something slotted into place. Gabriel’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair to get as far away from it as possible. He pointed accusingly at Crowley. “You—you have _feelings_ for him.”

“I do not,” Crowley hissed, panic in his eyes.

“You do.” Gabriel stared at him. No wonder Crowley wore sunglasses all the time. It was all right there. “Oh, that’s—that’s disgusting.”

“What?” said Crowley. “Oh, like you and Beelzzzebub don’t have ‘feelings.’”

“Not those feelings!” His stomach turned over, and he shut his eyes and pressed a hand to his mouth. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“I don’t have feelingzzz for him!” Crowley said, jumping to his feet. “He’s a friend, okay, that’s it. And he’s still crying, and I still don’t want that, so if you could juzzt tell him I’m not dead—”

“Yeah, ‘cause friends tell each other that,” he muttered, with another flash of anger at Beelzebub. “Why would they go back to hell without telling me? Why go back at all? I thought they liked it here. They’ve got the bees and everything.”

Crowley shrugged. “Who knows, with Beelzzzebub. They were always hard to figure out.”

But Gabriel _knew_ Beelzebub. He’d known them for six thousand years. The whole basis of their relationship lay in knowing how to anticipate each other’s next move, or play into each other’s assumptions, or just piss each other off with a little effort as possible. That wasn’t to say Beelzebub couldn’t still surprise him from time to time. He hadn’t expected them to try to shoot him over the bees, for instance. Or to blow up when they found out he’d told Aziraphale and Crowley about the swap. Or…run off to hell without saying anything. Maybe he had misjudged them after all. “Asshole,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Well, what can you expect from a demon, eh?”

Gabriel shot Crowley a look. At least some demons, he refrained from pointing out, made the effort of giving their friends advance notice before disappearing off the face of the Earth. “I don’t suppose there’s a discrete way to get a message down there?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not that I know of. Otherwise I’d have gotten in touch and tried to call the whole thing off. Turned out to be so much more of a mess than I expected.” He looked up at Gabriel. “Which brings me back to the original point. Are you gonna tell Aziraphale?”

Gabriel sighed and pulled out his phone. “Fine, I’ll tell your crush you’re alive. Let’s get this over with.”

“He’zz not—O-oh, I didn’t necessarily mean right now—”

Too late. The phone was already ringing. Gabriel shot Crowley a glare and put it on speaker. “Gabriel?” said Aziraphale’s voice through the phone, still a bit tear-stained. At the sound of it, Crowley tensed and swallowed hard. He really wasn’t fooling anyone. “What happened? You hung up quite suddenly.”

“Beelzebub didn’t kill Crowley,” he said through his teeth.

A pause. “What?”

“Crowley’s not dead,” Gabriel went on, glaring straight at Crowley.

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale squeaked.

“Yes. So you can calm down.”

Aziraphale gave a sniffly, relieved laugh. “Oh, that’s…that’s good to hear.”

Crowley was staring at the phone like it could answer all the questions he had ever asked. Gabriel snapped his fingers to jolt him out of it. “None of that,” he mouthed.

“How do you know?” Aziraphale asked. “I still don’t understand—What exactly happened?”

Gabriel glanced at Crowley and smiled. “You know what,” he said, “Why don’t I let Beelzebub explain it to you.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and he shook his head violently. Gabriel’s empty smile widened as he pointed the phone towards Crowley. The demon stared at the phone in terror for a second, then lunged forward and hit the “end call” button.

“What was that?” asked Gabriel.

“I dunno, I panicked,” said Crowley. “How’m I suppozzed to explain this? I can’t tell him what actually—”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” said Gabriel. “This whole thing was your idea.”

“Well…”

Gabriel sighed in frustration and slammed the phone onto the table. “It was _their_ idea, wasn’t it?”

“Ehh, little bit,” said Crowley, cringing.

Well, wasn’t that just perfect. His hands curled into fists. He was probably better off without Beelzebub, anyway. He didn’t need them. Aziraphale and Crowley could be his friends. He glanced at Crowley, still disturbed by sight of him lounging around in Beelzebub’s body. Well, maybe just Aziraphale.

“Well, thankzzz,” said Crowley, with a bit of sarcasm, “for doing the absolute bare minimum. I was really hoping you could, y’know, explain all this?” He waved at himself.

“I’m not doing that.”

“What? Why not?”

Gabriel shrugged and folded his arms. “It’s not my problem. I don’t feel like it.”

Crowley’s head flopped over the back of the chair as he groaned in frustration. “I thought angels were suppozzzed to be the nice ones.”

“I guess they fired me for a reason,” said Gabriel.

“Was the reazzzon that you’re a dick?”

“Oh, ouch,” said Gabriel, pretending to be hurt. “Really, name-calling is the best you can do?”

Crowley got to his feet, shaking his head. “No wonder you got along so well with Beelzzzzzebub. Forget this, I have better things to do. Thanks for nothing.”

“I called him like you wanted,” Gabriel pointed out. “He stopped crying. That doesn’t make you happy?”

Crowley scowled, but nodded. “Alright, fine. Solved that problem.”

Gabriel waited expectantly. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”

“Nope!” Crowley put one hand on the doorknob and paused, looking at the row of gray squares framed on Gabriel’s wall. “Um, why d’you have—”

“None of your business,” Gabriel snapped, bristling. The last thing he needed was a reminder of Beelzebub. He ought to just get rid of those stupid gray squares. Obviously they hadn’t been the (admittedly mildly annoying) gesture of friendship he had taken them for. “Get out of my apartment.”

“I’m on my way.” Crowley left and let the door slam behind him. Gabriel shuddered, wishing he could peel the memory of Crowley’s movements in Beelzebub’s body out of his brain. He looked back at the grey squares. Well, at the very least, he could get rid of any unpleasant reminders of his former demon acquaintance.

He ought to send them straight to the dumpster. Getting them off the wall was the important thing, but why stop there? It wasn’t like he was going to need them anymore. He raised his hand to snap his fingers.

He couldn’t do it. With a sigh, he picked them up and moved them into a closet. There was no real reason to be that drastic. They wouldn’t bother him if they were out of sight, at least. That was the important thing. They didn’t need to be gone completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have cake! And nobody will cry.


	8. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone still won't tell Aziraphale what's going on, and he is getting increasingly desperate to find out. He gets a cake for his trouble, makes a new friend, and loses another. He does not realize that they are the same friend.

Aziraphale poured himself another glass of wine. He needed it after the emotional roller coaster of the past twenty-four hours. He was, of course, extraordinarily relieved to hear that Crowley had not been murdered, but could not even form a guess at what had actually happened. Gabriel deflected the question every time he asked, and was in a much more irritable mood than Aziraphale would have expected after discovering that his demonic friend was still on Earth and in one piece. At least he and Beelzebub could still talk. Aziraphale wished he was in the same situation.

The doorbell rang, and Aziraphale coughed a little on the wine and set down the glass. Hopefully, that was Gabriel come to give him something of an explanation. When he stood up, the floor moved under him a little more than he had expected, so he shut his eyes for a moment and sobered up before opening the door.

Beelzebub stood on the other side, wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses and holding a white cardboard box. “Crowley’s not dead,” he said, holding up a hand as Aziraphale started to shut the door. “I didn’t kill him. Just scared him a little, that’zz all I meant.”

“Gabriel told me.” Aziraphale looked over the demon to make sure they had not brought any weapons. They appeared to be unarmed, but considering that their umbrella was a gun, that didn’t mean much. He nodded at the box. “What’s that?” He had become very familiar with the boxes used by most of the bakeries in the city, and recognized this one from a lovely place uptown, but that still didn’t explain why Beelzebub was carrying it. It also didn’t rule out the possibility that there was something unpleasant inside, like a severed head, or a bomb.

The demon glanced down at it. “It’s a cake box, izzn’t it?”

“I can see that.” Aziraphale was wary of anything from Beelzebub, but that bakery did such a nice buttercream frosting… “What’s inside?”

He could feel Beelzebub’s exasperation through the sunglasses. “A _cake_.”

“Why?”

Beelzebub shrugged. “Gabe’zz idea. Sort of a, sorry-I-gave-you-a-scare-and-made-it-sound-like-I-murdered-your-acquaintance. ‘Cept, that wouldn’t fit on the cake.” They flipped open the lid of the box. Aziraphale flinched back, but inside was only a round cake, iced in white, with the words “Crowley’s not dead” piped in raspberry jam.

Aziraphale blinked down at it. The poor baker who filled the order must have been frightfully confused. “What sort of cake is it?”

“Oh, for—Doezzz it really matter?”

Perhaps not. Aziraphale would eat pretty much any cake, though they might have to make an exception for one from Beelzebub. But the demon seemed…oddly different from his first impression of them. They were less cold, less aggressively impassive. It was like they were a different person. And the cake was iced in that lovely buttercream he so enjoyed, and he had been meaning to try their lemon raspberry…

“So, you gonna take it or not?” Said Beelzebub, holding out the box. “‘Cause I could always just eat it myself.”

Aziraphale hesitated for another half-second before taking the box. “Come inside.”

“Inside?” Crowley blinked. He hadn’t been planning to hang around for long. He shouldn’t have come at all, really, except he needed to know how the angel was doing. Hearing him through the phone was something, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to see Aziraphale in person to be sure. The fact that he missed the angel was definitely only a tiny factor.

“Oh, uh,” he said, knowing that he ought to leave but feeling his resistance waning. “Y’know, that’zzz alright, I really should be—”

“Come inside,” Aziraphale repeated. It was an order, not an invitation. Crowley swallowed and followed him into the flat.

“Nizze, er, nice place you’ve got,” he said, looking around. He stopped in the living room, where two and a half walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, every inch of them crammed. “How d’you have so many bookzz? You haven’t even been here a month.” He really needed to figure out how to get that buzz under control. The way it vibrated through his teeth set his hair on edge every time.

Aziraphale didn’t answer. Motioning for Crowley to follow, he went into the kitchen, set down the cake, and pulled a sharp knife from a drawer. Crowley sucked in his breath and took a step back—he had never figured Aziraphale for the divine-retribution sort of angel, but he was learning a lot about him recently—but then Aziraphale sank the blade into the cake and cut out a slice. Crowley stood uncomfortably in the doorway, wondering why he was here, as Aziraphale plopped the cake onto a plate and dug out a fork from a drawer. Then he handed the plate to Crowley.

He looked at it, baffled, then back up at Aziraphale. “Take a bite,” said the angel.

Crowley bristled as he understood. “I didn’t—you don’t think I poisoned it—?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not!”

Azitaphale nodded toward the plate. “Then take a bite.”

Resigned, Crowley took the cake and ate a bite. “See? Genuine apology cake,” he said, swallowing and setting the plate down. “Nothing nefarious.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked from him to the cake, seeming mildly surprised. “In that case, er...thank you.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Gabe’zzz idea. Like I said.”

Aziraphale gave him a strange look. “Gabriel doesn’t eat.”

Crowley’s stomach churned. How would he have known that? “Yeah, but he knows what a cake is. And that you like ‘em, so.”

“Well, that was very thoughtful of him,” said Aziraphale. “Convey my gratitude.”

“Uh, yeah.” Crowley was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He had delivered the cake, checked in to make sure Aziraphale had stopped crying, and should be going on his way. Anything else he might do here was probably a terrible idea.

“Perhaps I did overreact a little,” Azirhale said, almost to himself. “I was just awfully worried. Crowley was my—my work partner, and I hadn’t seen him in a week.”

Crowley looked at him. There had been a pause there, he was almost certain of it. Was Aziraphale going to say something else? Was he going to say “friend”?

“And now it turns out you haven’t been discorporated after all,” Aziraphale went on. “And Gabriel hung up so suddenly yesterday, twice—I wish somebody would just tell me what’s—”

“Were you going to say ‘friend’?” Crowley blurted out. A flush rose in his face, even though in his current disguise, he had nothing to be embarrassed about. “Uh, about Crowley, I mean,” he added. “Juzzzt, you sort of paused there, is all.” Nope, nothing to be embarrassed about. Why would he care? He was Beelzebub, and had only a passing interest in this conversation.

Aziraphale’s face filled with—something. “I know it’s ridiculous,” he said, sitting down. “An angel and a demon. Opposite sides, and all that.”

Crowley swallowed, trying to calm the hammering in his chest.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked up with a tiny laugh. “Goodness, I forgot who I’m talking to. I meant no offense.”

“Hm? Oh, me and Gabriel, right.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah, no, no offense taken. I know what you meant. Unthinkable, right? ‘Till it izzn’t.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale straightened a little. “That’s very well put.”

“It is?” mumbled Crowley.

Aziraphale thought a moment. “Crowley and I were meant to be working together from the start. You and Gabriel were supposed to be enemies. How on Earth did that happen?”

Crowley pursed his lips and shrugged. It wasn’t as if Beelzebub chatted about his angel friend around the office, and for all his imagination, he couldn’t picture a scenario where they might have forged an alliance. “Er, long story. Not worth hearing.”

“No, really.” Uh oh. He was interested now. “And why Gabriel?”

“Uhh…” As Crowley’s eyes flitted around the room, he was immensely glad they were behind shades again. How could he answer that? Gabriel was a real piece of work. Why would Beelzebub want to hang out with him?

Well. A demon wanting to spend time with an angel. Crowley had plenty of experience to draw from in that department.

“He’s er, clever, I guess,” he said as carelessly as he could. “Might even say brilliant.” That was good. Nice and vague. He thought a moment to come up with more. “Bit of a bastard, not that he’d ever admit it. And...real easy to talk to. Way more than anyone downstairs. I feel like he gets me, you know, in a way nobody else really does. And he’s got these eyes—” he broke off. Gabriel. He was supposed to be talking about Gabriel. A momentary panic fluttered through him until he remembered that Gabriel, too, had eyes.

The eyes he had just been thinking about were currently staring at him in wonder. “I didn’t know a demon could feel such things.”

“Hmf.” Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets, looked anywhere but at Aziraphale, and did not say, _guess some of us didn’t get the memo._ “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale ignored that and thoughtfully ate a bite of cake. “I understand what you mean,” he said after swallowing. “With Crowley, sometimes—”

“Ngh, no.” Crowley waved in an odd little spasm to get Aziraphale to stop talking. “Nope, hah. Don’t wanna hear about Crowley.” That was a lie, but he might discorporate from embarrassment if Aziraphale gave him any sort of compliment. Plus, it didn’t seem right to hear it like this, when Aziraphale didn’t know he was the one listening.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked taken aback, and…was Crowley imagining it, or was he disappointed? Definitely imagining it. Or did he actually want someone to talk to?

Crowley swallowed so hard his throat hurt and wondered if Aziraphale had anyone else to converse with. His rapport with Gabriel was flimsy at best, and there was a lot you couldn’t talk to humans about without sending them into an existential panic. “Y’could come to lunch,” he said before he had time to think it over. “With me and Gabe, I mean. We do lunch. Thursdayzzz. That’s a normal thing we do. I mean, normally.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Gabriel doesn’t eat.”

Dammit, he’d forgotten already. “Uhh, yeah, no, but he’s a good sport about it. He likezz the décor, and, um, ordering people around.” That seemed up Gabriel’s alley, he hoped. “And, I do too, of course. Customer service jobzzz—one of ours. Plus, the food thing.” Did Beelzebub like food? He struggled to remember. They kept bees, and bees made honey, didn’t they? Surely Beelzebub didn’t just dump it all down the drain.

“Alright,” said Aziraphale. “I can’t believe I’m accepting a lunch invitation from a _demon—_ ”

“You’ve done it before,” said Crowley, a little offended.

“—Who shot my associate,” Aziraphale finished. “But stranger things have happened.”

“Have they?”

“Well, the world _didn’t end._ No thanks to you.”

“It’s been not ending for centuries! That’s what’s normal.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, which was so familiar that for a second Crowley forgot anything had changed. “Are you sure it’s okay with Gabriel if I come?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“No,” Crowley cut him off. “No, it’s, he’s fine with it. It was his idea.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Like with the cake?”

Shit, the angel was perceptive. Alright, so this version of Beelzebub would just be embarrassingly thoughtful towards everyone. Definitely not just Aziraphale. There was nothing special about him. “Sure, like the cake,” he said carelessly.

“ _Gabriel_ certainly thinks of everything,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley bristled at the implication in his voice. “Thank you, Beelzebub. I think…I think I needed this.”

“Don’t,” Crowley snapped. After he had screwed everything up so spectacularly, the last thing he needed, or wanted, was the angel’s thanks. But then he looked up and saw the gratitude in Aziraphale’s face and found himself saying, “Right, yeah, anytime.”

“Izzzn’t this fun,” said Crowley.

Gabriel tapped one hand on the table irritably, wondering why he had agreed to come. “Like you have anything better to do,” Crowley had said. “Rather sit at home and be miserable by yourself?”

So, instead, Gabriel was sitting in a café and being miserable with three other people, which was even worse. Aziraphale was talking about some park or something, and Crowley was trying very hard to look like he wasn’t paying much attention, while Gabriel was trying to look like he was. None of them were particularly cheerful.

“Gabriel, are you alright?” asked Aziraphale, calling his attention back. “You look…”

Like he would rather be anywhere else, probably. Not sitting here with the demon currently inhabiting his only friend’s body and an angel who was doing a terrible job faking cheerfulness. Although, to be fair, Gabriel couldn’t have been doing much better if Aziraphale had noticed. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand. “Watching people eat never sits right with me.”

Aziraphale glanced from him to Crowley. “I thought you two did this regularly?”

Gabriel shot Crowley a glare. How much had he made up? Did he have an entire backstory he should know about?

“Yeah,” said Crowley, too quickly. “It’s, er, he’zz like this every time.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

Gabriel sighed and looked around for another topic of conversation. “Your, ah, sandwich,” he decided. “How is it?”

Aziraphale looked down at his plate. “I’m having fish.”

“Pretty poor sandwich, then,” Crowley put in, and waited for them to laugh. Nobody did. “Oh, come on, that wazzn’t bad.”

Aziraphale looked at the two of them and set down his fork. “I’ve just remembered. There’s…somewhere else I’m supposed to be right now.”

“Oh, of course,” said Gabriel. “If you’ve got vaguely-defined things you need to be doing, we completely understand.”

“You haven’t even finished eating,” said Crowley, who didn’t seem to have heard Gabriel at all.

“I’ve had about all I want, I think,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you for the invitation. So sorry to drop out like this.” He forced a smile and a nod at each of them and left.

Crowley watched him go with a sigh, then turned on Gabriel. “Nice job. You ran him off. Could you have possibly looked any less happy to be here?”

“I told you I didn’t want to be here,” Gabriel muttered. “This was your idea, not mine.”

“Yeah, so _Azzzzziraphale_ wouldn’t have to mope around by himself,” said Crowley. “Now he probably thinkzzz he ruined your lunch.”

“Why did you have to drag me into it?” he snapped, sitting forward. “I’ve been ‘moping around by myself’ too, and nobody—”

“Oh, good for you,” Crowley interrupted. “You win the sad award. You’re the most sad. Does that make you happy? ‘Cause if it does, we have to rescind the award.”

“Oh my god—” Gabriel threw up one hand in exasperation. “I told you I didn’t want to get involved. Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because he needzzz a friend!” Crowley burst out. “And I’m—I can’t—I’d muck it up again.” He sighed impatiently. “He’d do the same for you, wouldn’t he?”

“Would he?” said Gabriel. “I’ve been pretty miserable myself, and he hasn’t—”

“Probably because you keep running him off!”

Gabriel blinked and sat back in his chair. Aziraphale actually had tried to comfort him, he remembered. He had handled it pretty badly. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “We all get that you’re mad at Beelzzzebub, but what’zz that got to do with the rest of us?”

He hated to admit it, but Crowley had a point. He had been a little—okay, a lot—focused on himself lately, and might have been harsh on Aziraphale. Their situations were surprisingly similar, actually. The main difference was that Aziraphale’s friend was still there. But, of course, he didn’t know that.

“I’ll, um…” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ll call him and reschedule. You’re not coming this time,” he added. “I’m not gonna third wheel you guys again.”

“Third wheel?”

“Like a third wheel on a bicycle. It’s unnecessary.”

“You mean a tricycle?”

“It’s an expression,” said Gabriel, exasperated. “I’m implying that you guys are dating.”

“Wh—No—” Crowley stuttered. “For the lazzzt time—”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, leave me _out_ of it, please,” he interrupted. “I’m going home.”

Aziraphale knocked at Michael’s office, glancing nervously around at the surrounding blankness. The past few weeks were probably the longest he’d ever been away from heaven. The odd thing was, he hadn’t missed it in the slightest. The realization brought him a little guilt, and then he really felt like he was back at home again.

The door opened, and Michael looked at him from behind her standing desk. “Aziraphale? Come in.”

He entered and shut the door behind himself.

“We hadn’t heard from you in a few days,” said Michael. “How is the mission going? Any progress?”

“Well—Er, not recently.” The guilt intensified. He had left quite a few things out of his recent reports. “We’ve just been, ah, watching his apartment, like I said. No leads on the hellfire thing.” And he had just lied to an archangel. It wouldn’t be the first time, though it was probably the most significant one so far. “Actually, Michael, I was hoping I could borrow your phone.”

“My…” Michael glanced down at the glowing rectangle of plastic that only barely resembled a phone. “Weren’t you issued one?” she said, confused.

“Y-yes, but, ah.” Aziraphale realized his hands were fidgeting and hid them behind his back. “I need to…I need to use the back channels,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Ah.” Michael nodded. “Has your counterpart been giving you trouble?”

“You could, er, you could say that,” said Aziraphale. “I mean, he’s not… _there._ ”

Michael looked like someone had personally insulted her. “He left? Shameful, simply shameful. You’re supposed to be working together.” She turned back to the files she was sifting through. “His superiors will hear about this. Thank you for informing me.”

It was a clear dismissal, but Aziraphale didn’t leave. “Um,” he said, fidgeting again. “I actually—I meant to try talking to him myself.”

Michael arched one thin eyebrow.

“He, he may have been discorporated, or something,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure there’s no need to get his superiors involved. If I could just get in touch with him and find out what happened—”

“I suppose.” Michael handed him the almost-phone. “Just bring it back when you’re finished.” She turned back to the files she had been sifting through when he came in and ignored him.

“Thank you.” He looked around for a minute to find the door, and left. Michael was always moving the entrance to her office in what Aziraphale suspected was some sort of power play. It was not very becoming of an angel, but perhaps archangels were held to different standards. It would certainly explain Sandalphon.

He retreated into the infinite maze that was heaven’s filing system, looked at the phone, and thought hard at it until the dim light emanating from it turned red and started to pulse. Since he’d never seen his own celestial phone, or any other angel’s, do that, he had to assume that meant the call was being routed downstairs.

“Thank you for calling hell,” said a cold, robotic voice through the phone. “Your call is very unimportant to us. Please hold until the next representative is available.” Aziraphale sighed and kneaded the bridge of his nose while a sickeningly catchy melody played through the phone. It consisted of exactly four notes, played over and over. He’d probably be humming it for the next ten years.

Aziraphale sat in the middle of the files as the song played again and again _and again and again._ He found himself occasionally humming along. Mostly, he focused on not open the filing cabinets and tearing manila envelopes in half just to drown it out. How long were they going to make him wait? Surely it wouldn’t be years. He’d probably have lost his mind completely by then.

It turned out to be only an hour and a half, but it certainly felt like years when the music finally stopped and a low voice said, “It’s Ligur. What do you want?”

“Oh—Yes. Hello.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I would like to speak with Crow—with Prince Crowley, please, if he is available.”

The other demon, Ligur, snorted derisively. “He’s not.”

Aziraphale’s spirits, which weren’t very high to begin with, fell. “Oh.”

“I’ll put you through so he can tell you himself,” said Ligur, and then the line beeped for a moment and started to ring again.

Well, that hadn’t made any sense, but Aziraphale wasn’t in a state to complain about it. It had been an awfully long time since he’d spoken with Crowley. He realized quite suddenly that he hadn’t thought of what he was going to say.

“Office of Prince Crowley,” said his friend’s voice through the phone, and he jumped. “What do you want, wank-wingsss.”

“Crowley.” The demon sounded in a bad mood, which made sense considering that he was in hell. “It’s me. Aziraphale.”

There was a short pause. “What the heaven are you calling me for?” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale flinched. _That_ was definitely not a tone he’d heard Crowley use before. “I—Well, I was hoping you could tell me what happened,” he said timidly. “I, er, I got your texts, but…Look, you didn’t have to lie to me. I know Beelzebub’s alive—”

_“What.”_

Aziraphale swallowed. “We bumped into each other,” he explained. “They—I’m so sorry to say it, Crowley—they took your car.”

“I don’t _care_ about the damn car,” said Crowley. “Beelzebub’s none of your concern. Stay out of their business.”

“If you would just explain—”

“And don’t call me again.” _Click._ The line died.

Something clenched in Aziraphale’s chest as he looked at the phone and tapped to hang up. Without realizing it, part of him had been hoping that he could help find a solution to whatever had been keeping Crowley downstairs. That Crowley might want to return to Earth as much as Aziraphale wanted him to. It was so lonely without him. Aziraphale had enjoyed that handful of weeks of knowing Crowley more than any amount of time in heaven.

Which was ridiculous. They worked together out of necessity, that was all. Aziraphale had clearly misjudged him. Now that he was back home, he wasn’t nice at all. Demons couldn’t be nice. They couldn’t be good company, unless they were trying to temp you into something. And how many doubts had Aziraphale had since they had started this mission? “Dammit,” he muttered. Crowley had got him. He had never been a very good angel. They shouldn’t have sent him. Of course he was going to fall victim to the enemy’s wiles.

Only…demons weren’t all bad, now that he thought about it. Beelzebub seemed alright. That cake couldn’t have been Gabriel’s idea, and their conversation hadn’t been unpleasant. And Beelzebub didn’t work for hell anymore, and wouldn’t have had any motive for charming Aziraphale. Beelzebub wasn’t that different from Crowley, now that he thought about it. Perhaps they could be friends as well, now that Crowley was refusing to talk to him.

Why did he fit in so well with demons?

The question made Aziraphale’s eyes widen. He scrambled to his feet and shoved it into a dark corner of his mind. There were some things you didn’t want to think about while you were in heaven. He hurried back to Michael’s office to return the phone.


	9. Catching Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels are just a little bit petty. Beelzebub gets a surprising phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 16-chapter estimate is tentative, but I can say with certainty that that number will not go down.

“Sorry about lunch on Thursday,” said Gabriel, when he and Aziraphale met up for tea. Thank goodness it was only tea, and not a full meal. “I, um…Had a rough day. Rough couple of days.”

“No need to apologize.” Aziraphale blew on his steaming teacup and sipped. Now that Crowley had pointed it out, Gabriel did notice that Aziraphale seemed down. He was trying to smile, and not doing a very convincing job of it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Gabriel shook his head. That wasn’t the point of this meeting. He was done feeling sorry for himself, or at least, he was trying to be. “How have you been?”

“Oh, fine, I suppose,” said Aziraphale, still unconvincingly. He didn’t look at Gabriel as he said it, instead focusing on spreading clotted cream over his scone. “I went to the Whitney yesterday.”

“Oh?” Gabriel tried to sound interested.

Aziraphale nodded. “They have a lovely collection. I think. Some of it was very strange.” He took a thoughtful bite of his scone. “Have you ever been?”

“I don’t think so.” Gabriel had always wanted to be the kind of person who appreciates cutting-edge art. He had tried for a while back in the sixties and seventies, hoping that if he kept pretending long enough he might start to understand the more abstract pieces. Sometimes, if he looked at them for long enough, he even thought he started to feel something. Then one day he found himself looking at just a plain white canvas with a single red square, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. “Contemporary art isn’t really my thing.”

“Hm,” said Aziraphale in a tone of agreement. “What have you been up to recently?”

What had he done recently? Gabriel couldn’t remember. He did his usual exercise routine, which consisted of twice the amount of running as usual. Sometimes he biked. He took another stab at photography, but something weird had happened to his lens and he couldn’t seem to get the lighting right. At least, he blamed it on the lens. “Not much,” he said.

Aziraphale sipped his tea. They really weren’t very good conversationalists. “A pity Beelzebub couldn’t make it today.”

“Hah.” Gabriel had meant to say it in a tone of agreement. It did not come out that way.

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled with concern. “Oh dear. Are you two not on good terms right now?”

That would be a good excuse for his mood on Thursday. “Yeah, a little,” he said. It wasn’t even a lie. “I mean—I thought they were dead. They didn’t even tell me.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale set down his teacup. “Still, at least they’re back now.”

If only. Gabriel gritted his teeth. This was all so stupid. Aziraphale was the one whose friend stuck around, not Gabriel. And Aziraphale and Crowley had barely known each other for a month.

“They do care for you an awful lot, you know,” said Aziraphale.

Gabriel blinked and tried to hide his confusion. What had Crowley done this time? “Yeah, well, they could have at least given me a heads-up.”

Aziraphale was quiet. He took another bite of his scone and chewed thoughtfully, looking down at the table. “I spoke with Crowley yesterday,” he admitted.

“What?” Gabriel straightened. Was Beelzebub _here?_ Why would they want to talk to Aziraphale? Why wouldn’t they talk to him? “You—How?”

“I borrowed Michael’s phone,” said Aziraphale. “The back channels, you know.”

Gabriel had not known about the back channels until very recently. “What did th—he say?”

“He was rather…short with me,” said Aziraphale. He drew a deep breath and dusted some crumbs off his waistcoat. “More than short. Unforgivably rude, really.”

Gabriel could not contain a sigh of exasperation. Of course Beelzebub had been rude about it. They were rarely anything but rude. “Wish I could have a few words with ‘Crowley,’” he muttered.

“Do you?”

Gabriel nodded. An idea occurred to him. “Yeah,” he said, arranging his face into something righteously angry. “He was awful to Beelzebub all those years, and now you? I’m not sure I can let that stand. I’d give him a piece of my mind—”

“I appreciate that, Gabriel, but I could stand up for myself.”

Gabriel looked at him doubtfully. “Could you?” Aziraphale was always so polite. Gabriel doubted he could say anything really cutting if he tried. He was too soft. “If you start out by calling him rude, he’ll thank you for the complement. Trust me, I know how demons think.” That was a lie. He didn’t even understand how one specific demon thought. “I know how to make it sting. I had six thousand years of practice. You wanna get back at Crowley, or not?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were narrow. He seemed to at least be considering it. “I don’t think revenge is considered virtuous.”

“He’s a demon,” Gabriel pointed out. “Call it divine retribution.”

Aziraphale ate the last bite of his scone. “In that case, I expect a full recap after you’re done.” He brushed the crumbs off his fingers, his brow wrinkling thoughtfully. “Now, how to get Michael’s phone down here without her noticing…”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Gabriel. “I’ll go to her instead.”

Beelzebub sat in Crowley’s throne, put their head down on his desk, and daydreamed about wide open spaces. They had always known that being Prince of Hell was hard work, but they didn’t expect so much of it to be so boring. The Dark Council was mostly occupied long, pointless meetings where everybody pretended things were going fine in their department and nobody had any idea how to fix things. Most of their previous ideas had apparently revolved around bringing the traitorous Beelzebub swiftly and very publicly to justice, which was no longer an option. In a particularly mind-numbing session, Beelzebub had snapped and suggested they just have their contacts upstairs flood the place with holy water. That had not gone over well.

Between meetings, Beelzebub really should have been out on the levels they were responsible for, trying to scare their more unruly subjects into submission (they were much better at it than Crowley had ever been), but damn it, that got exhausting. Level seven had been even worse than usual recently. Even the minotaur and harpies had gotten involved. At the moment, when Beelzebub was still trying to recover from the last meeting and mentally prepare for the next one, and didn’t want any part of that.

Even inside Crowley’s office, the din of the demons outside was too loud. Beelzebub hadn’t had a moment of real quiet since stepping back downstairs, and the damn Council had too many mandatory meetings for them to find time to go back up to Earth for a break. They couldn’t even check on the bees. Hopefully they were doing okay. They would have texted Gabriel for an update, but there wasn’t any cell service anywhere in all nine levels of hell.

They still weren’t sure how to tell Gabriel what had happened. First, the problem had been figuring out how to word it. Then, they realized they literally didn’t know how to contact him from down here. They had tried asking Hastur about his radio-hijacking trick, but he had started asking too many questions about who they wanted to talk to, and why, and Beelzebub couldn’t think of a believable reason that Crowley would need to talk to Aziraphale when the demon he was hunting in the first place was supposedly dead. Well, surely Gabriel had found out by now from Crowley. It wasn’t what Beelzebub would have preferred, but someone had to tell him.

They pressed their hands over their ears, but still couldn’t stifle the noise outside. They missed their cabin, with the sky above it instead of a pitch-black ceiling that always leaked. They missed being able to talk without having to use all of Crowley’s ridiculous verbal quirks to deflect suspicion. Sure, it was nice to stand a little taller than most of the other demons around here, but Crowley’s limbs were so long that they kept accidentally bumping into things. Beelzebub would have put up with being six inches tall, if they could just go back to Earth for a while.

The phone on Crowley’s desk rang, and the noise made Beelzebub flinch. Groaning, they raised their head to look at the tiny green-gray screen where the caller id was displayed. The number was all ones. Beelzebub rubbed their eyes and picked it up. “Wank-wings.”

“Not even close.”

Beelzebub frowned. “Aziraphale?” Really, again? It couldn’t have been more than a day or two, although it was difficult to tell with no day/night cycle down here. “I told you not to call me again.”

“Yeah, you were pretty clear about not wanting to talk to me. What the hell, _demon_.”

Beelzebub stared at the desk for a moment, the jolted straight up in the chair. The voice was Aziraphale’s, but only one person called them “demon” in that tone. “You!” they shrieked. “What the—what the heaven did you _do?_ ”

“So it’s ‘what the _heaven’_ again, is it?”

“Shut up, shut up you idiot,” said Beelzebub frantically. Gabriel was in heaven. In Aziraphale’s body. Where he was a wanted criminal. “You _moron_. Hang up right now, we don’t—we don’t know who else could be lissstening.”

“So the line is _bugged,_ is that it?”

The pun made Beelzebub’s eye twitch. “Have you lossst your goddamn mind? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Me? What do I think I’m doing?” Gabriel’s voice (which was currently Aziraphale’s voice) rose. “You’re the one who thinks you can just _buzz off_ whenever you feel like it, and not tell me anything. I thought you died!”

“You thought _what?”_

“And I thought we had a plan,” Gabriel went on. “You know, for _catching flies?_ Did you just forget?”

“Of courssse not.” Beelzebub laid their forehead back on the desk, cursing themselves. They had thought that, as Prince of Hell, they’d be able to delegate enough work to others that they’d have enough time for a side gig. Clearly, they thought wrong. But how were they supposed to explain that to Gabriel over a tapped phone line? “Look, I’ve been trying to get back up there, but everything’sss really gone to hell down here, I mean more than usual—”

“Oh, how convenient for you,” said Gabriel sarcastically. “You just _disappeared._ You could have told me—”

“How? I can’t get a call through from down here, and they won’t let me back up.”

“I don’t care,” Gabriel snapped. “It really _stings,_ demon, and yes, that was entirely intentional.”

Beelzebub gritted their teeth and held back a thousand curses at Gabriel. They probably deserved the puns. They probably deserved worse. “Sssorry,” they mumbled, hissing a little by accident.

“What?”

“I ssssaid I’m sorry,” said Beelzebub, their teeth still clenched. “I will not say it again.”

The line was silent for a moment. “Oh. Okay.”

It still didn’t seem like enough. Beelzebub ground their teeth for a moment. “I owe you one,” they growled. “Alright?”

“I’ll say you do.”

Beelzebub’s head still pressed into the desk. The wood grains were a lot sharper than they should have been for a writing surface, but that was hell for you. They lifted their head and rubbed at the ridges that had been molded into their skin. “Is that all you wanted to say? You pulled this stunt and went through the back channels just to chew me out?”

“Yeah, I did. It was real shitty, B—demon.”

“Yeah.” Beelzebub sighed, rubbing their eyes. “Well, I’m stuck in hell now, so you could say I’m paying for it.”

Gabriel paused. “Stuck?”

“I told you, I’ve been trying to get back,” said Beelzebub. “Apparently a prince can’t just zip up to Earth whenever they please.”

“They won’t let you leave?”

“Obviously. Haven’t you been listening?”

Another pause. “That’s a problem.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Beelzebub in a flat stating-the-obvious tone. “For me. You can just _go back to Earth,_ ” they made sure to emphasize that part as much as possible, “and get back to, I dunno, lifting cars over your head, or whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

“You mean finding Gabriel,” he said pointedly.

“Yeah, that.” Beelzebub had almost forgotten they were probably being listened to.  
“ _On Earth._ What the bloody heaven were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” said Gabriel. “I was pissed off.”

“Why did—the other guy even agree to this?”

“He was also pissed off. You know you two are supposed to be friends. You could have at least pretended.”

“I’m not great with the whole friendship thing,” said Beelzebub, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“No shit, demon.”

They swallowed. It was probably too much to ask for Gabriel to look after the bees. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my, ah, little friends at all?”

Gabriel snorted unexpectedly. “Your ‘little friends’?”

“You know what I mean.”

“They’re okay,” said Gabriel. “I think. I didn’t get too close. They’ll _bee_ fine.”

“Stop that.”

“Oh, does that _bug_ you?”

“You already used bug.”

“Hey, cut me some slack,” said Gabriel. “I’m coming up with these on the _fly.”_

Beelzebub scowled, gripping the phone receiver almost hard enough to crush the plastic. “I will murder you.”

“Oh yeah?” said Gabriel. “Come up here and try it.”

“I am trying!” they insisted. “I’m doing my best, alright? Any more puns you want to drop before I hang up?”

“Well—”

Beelzebub hung up before he could finish. What was Gabriel thinking, climbing back into heaven just to give them a call? What was he _thinking?_

They were glad he had. Satan, Beelzebub had missed their back-and-forth. It was just weird when they were speaking in Crowley and Aziraphale’s voices.

They straightened in Crowley’s chair. Somehow, they were going to get back to Earth. They were going to find Crowley, and make him switch back. This ridiculous charade had gone on long enough.

Ligur frowned, taking off his headphones. “Hastur,” he called, rewinding the recording. “Listen to this.”

Hastur put on the headphones. A garbled version of Crowley’s voice played through the low-quality speakers. “–Lossst your goddamn mind? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Me? What do I think I’m doing?” said another voice, with an accent Hastur could only identify as coming from somewhere in the region of Europe, or perhaps Australia.

“Who is this?” he asked, taking the headphones half-off and turning to Ligur.

“Someone upstairs,” said Ligur. “It’s from Michael’s number. Listen to this next part.”

Hastur put the phone to his ear again in time to hear the angel say, “I thought you died!”

“You thought _what?”_ Crowley shot back incredulously.

“And I thought we had a plan,” said the angel. “You know, for _catching flies?_ Did you just forget?”

“Of courssse not.”

Hastur took the headphones off. “Catching flies,” he repeated.

“Yes,” said Ligur. “But the fly we sent Crowley to catch is supposed to be dead.”

They puzzled over it for a moment. “Who do we take this to?” asked Hastur. “Crowley is a prince.”

“There’s other princes,” said Ligur. He unplugged the headphones and rewinded the tape back to the beginning. “I think we take this all the way to the council.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If case the "catching flies" reference didn't land, try rereading the first part of chapter 5)
> 
> Oh yeah, Ligur survived in this universe. How? Because I wanted him to.


	10. Loose Lips Sink Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns the truth, in the worst possible way.

Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs in Gabriel’s apartment, waiting for him to get back from heaven. It really couldn’t happen soon enough. No matter where he sat, his reflection always seemed to be in sight—in addition to the reflective windows, frames, and the dark surface of the television, Gabriel’s apartment seemed to have an awful lot of mirrors—and it was terribly unsettling to catch sight of his reflection and see himself looking back out of Gabriel’s face. He just wanted to be comfortably back in his own body again.

Maybe it had been a mistake to trade with Gabriel so he could go chew out Crowley for whatever grievance he had against him. He was just so put out with Crowley. He probably would have yelled at the demon himself, if he had any idea what to say. And if he didn’t think Crowley would take it as a complement. It must have been his plan all along to trick Aziraphale into trusting him. He was a demon. That was what demons did.

There was a knock at the door. Aziraphale got carefully to his feet—walking in someone else’s body was a very peculiar experience, and did odd things to his sense of balance—and went to the door. He checked through the peephole first, hoping to see his own face looking back at him. Instead, he saw Beelzebub’s.

He opened the door. “Hello,” he said. “Do come in. To what do I owe the, ah…?”

“Had a thought,” said Beelzebub, taking the invitation to come inside. “Think you’ll appreciate this.” They held up a wad of printed photos and grinned. “Let’s talk haircuts. How long’s it been since Beelzzebub updated their look? You wanna help me decide on a new one?”

Aziraphale blinked a few times. They hadn’t known Beelzebub to refer to themselves in the third person before. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Haircutzzz,” Beelzebub repeated impatiently. “This frizzzy mop really isn’t my style. Plus, think how mad Beelzzzey will be when they get back and see I’ve changed it. You know them best, so I thought I’d give you a chance to vote for whatever’d piss them off the most.”

Aziraphale’s head was spinning. “Beelzey” echoed in his mind. They were acting an awful lot like… “When Beelzebub gets back?”

Beelzebub sighed and dropped their arms. “From hell, obviously. Assuming they do pop back up sometime, and don’t just get lost in their power fantasy of playing Prince of Hell.” In response to Aziraphale’s blank look, he said, “You know, the whole reazzon we switched in the first place? Seriously, G—Gabe?”

Aziraphale stared. The idea was so outrageous that he nearly rejected it on the spot, but it would explain so much. The sudden change in Beelzebub’s personality. The familiar feeling he got around them, just like when he talked to… “Crowley?”

The demon’s eyes snapped wide open and he stumbled backwards. “You’re not Gabriel.”

“No.” Aziraphale took a step forward. It really was Crowley. He didn’t know how he had missed it. The easy banter, the sunglasses, that dreadful posture—He’d been driving around in the same car, for heaven’s sake. So then it had been Beelzebub who was so rude to him on the phone, and Crowley who had brought him that cake to apologize… “What on Earth happened? Why would you—”

“I wazzzn’t supposed to tell you,” said Crowley, panicked, still backing away. He hit an end table, stumbled, and suddenly grabbed the corner for support as his face screwed up in agony. “No, no no no—” he shouted, his knees crumpling. “—Shit—”

“What’s happening?” Aziraphale dropped to the ground next to Crowley.

“I made a blood oath,” said Crowley through his teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut. “And I just broke it—Fuck, that burnzzzz—”

Aziraphale’s heart was racing in his chest. It wasn’t easy keeping up, but he knew at least that he couldn’t sit here and watch Crowley in such pain. “What does that mean? How do you stop it?”

“You don’t,” Crowley said through his teeth. He was gasping for breath, his face pale and beaded with sweat. “Ghh—Get out of here, Azzziraphale, you don’t want to see this—” He broke off into a strangled yell.

Aziraphale had no intention of going anywhere. There had to be something he could do to help. He couldn’t just leave Crowley alone like this, especially when he didn’t know what this would do to him. If breaking a blood oath was fatal…

That was too horrible to think about. His hands hovered above Crowley as he bent over him and shut his eyes. He tried to concentrate on finding the source of the problem, but all he could sense was horrible, incredible pain. Crowley had moved past the point of coherence. All he could do now was thrash and scream. Aziraphale struggled not to flinch and to focus on finding the problem, because if he could find it then maybe he’d be able to fix it—There had to be _something_ he could do—

Somewhere underneath all the pain, he found a pulsing knot of demonic energy, pumping agony through Crowley’s veins like some demented heart. Shuddering, he reached for it and found himself grabbing Crowley’s hand. His skin crawled, and he fought the urge to recoil in revulsion at the thing that was torturing Crowley as he channeled his own angelic power into Crowley’s hand. _Stop it, leave him alone, please…_

Crowley’s scream petered out long enough for him to draw breath. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure if it was his own hopeful imagination, but Crowley’s thrashing seemed to grow just a little less violent. But the pulsing mass of energy didn’t abate. Aziraphale was only numbing the symptoms, and barely at that.

At least it was something. He grasped Crowley’s hand in both of his own and bent over it, flooding it with heavenly energy. Surely this torture wouldn’t last forever. It had to end sometime. Aziraphale would just have to stay here until it did.

Crowley’s first thought when he opened his eyes was that he should not still be having thoughts. The pain from breaking a blood oath was supposed to destroy a demon, leaving them a shattered shell of their former self. I mean, sure, he felt like he’d been hit by a bus while having a bad hangover, but he was still Crowley. Just the fact that he remembered his own name was a…

His thoughts trailed off as he noticed Aziraphale slumped in an armchair next to the sofa he was laying on. A miracle.

“Azzzziraphale?” he buzzed hoarsely.

The angel stirred. He looked pale, drawn, tired in a way Crowley did not like. “You’re awake,” he said, looking at Crowley.

Crowley wasn’t sure where to start. Perhaps the less important things first. “Uh, weren’t you Gabriel?”

Aziraphale looked down at himself. “We switched back a while ago.”

“Why were you…?”

“He went up to heaven, as me, to talk you…well, you. Or, Beelzebub, I guess.”

Crowley reached up to run a hand through his hair, and got a momentary surprise when his hands touched Beelzebub’s tangled mat instead of his own red tuft. “How long’s it been?”

Aziraphale checked his watch. “About a day and a half, I think.”

“Wh—That long?” Aziraphale couldn’t have been here the entire time. He couldn’t have ignored Crowley’s pleas to leave him and stuck around to take care of him. He definitely couldn’t have spent so much energy doing it that he had passed out on the chair, pale and exhausted. Crowley’s stomach was doing something very strange and uncomfortable. “What…what’d you do?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “I don’t know much about blood oaths, but it seems they never expected anyone to have an angel around when they broke one.” He shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry I couldn’t do more. You seemed to be in quite a lot of pain.”

“Sorry?” He had worn himself out saving Crowley from becoming a whimpering vegetable, and he was sorry for not doing more? Crowley gave a shuddering laugh. It wasn’t even fair. How was he supposed to help being in love with him? “It’s me who should be sorry.”

Aziraphale looked at the floor instead of him. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked. “I’d been wondering where you were for weeks. Have you been here the whole time?”

Crowley swallowed. This was the harder part of the conversation. “I couldn’t’ve told you,” he said. “You just saw why. Beelzebub made me swear not to. I tried to convince them.” He should have been more insistent, though. If he had any idea how much damage it would cause, he would not have budged until Beelzebub gave in. Or, better yet, he’d never have agreed at all.

Aziraphale looked at him sadly for a moment. “You just _left,_ Crowley.”

Guilt gnawed at his insides. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he muttered.

The angel sighed, turning back to the floor. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Something was fluttering in Crowley’s chest, some stupid part of him that kept clinging to the fact that he meant something to Aziraphale, that he was at least important enough for Aziraphale to miss, that Aziraphale had seen him in pain and thought he was worth saving. It was a stupid hope. Goodness was in Aziraphale’s nature. If given the opportunity, he’d probably save the life of his worst enemy. Well, in a way, he just had.

“But why on Earth would you want to switch with Beelzebub?”

Crowley shrugged. “Beelzzzebub’s always wanted to be a prince. I wanted to stay on Earth. It seemed like an eazzy choice at the time.”

Aziraphale looked unconvinced. “They’ll be hunting for you now. You’re in danger. You risked that just to stay on Earth?”

“Bee will keep my coworkers off my back,” said Crowley. “You think I’d rather go back to hell? Earth is so much better.” He gestured at Aziraphale. “You get it. You like it here too, right? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t stay here if you got the chance.”

Aziraphale got that uncertain look he always did when the subject matter came too close to doubt for his comfort. “I…I don’t…”

“Oh, come on.” The angel’s hesitation had always been a little annoying, but could he really not even say that he preferred Earth to heaven? He was miserable up there. It was obvious. That shouldn’t have been too hard for him to admit. “Musicals, pastries, good wine, all that other stuff you love? How much of that have they got in heaven?”

“I don’t see how that matters.” Aziraphale’s eyes flickered around nervously. “I have a job to do, and then…”

“Then what?” Crowley interrupted before Aziraphale could say anything about leaving. It had been hard enough spending two weeks without Aziraphale, and that was before the angel had gone and saved his life. It was going to be a long eternity if he only had Gabriel and Beelzebub for company. “You’re clever enough to come up with something. Don’t go back, angel. Stay here on Earth with me.”

Oh, that was two words too many. He could have called it a temptation if he wasn’t the one who so badly wanted it. Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t noticed.

The surprise on Aziraphale’s face was evidence to the contrary. He swallowed. “With…”

“Crowley, hey!” Gabriel’s voice cut in across the room and made them both jump. He was poking his head through a door with one of his usual questionably-authentic smiles. “Good to see you pulled through, buddy. Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

_You know full well you’re interrupting something!_ Still, Crowley was grateful for the distraction from his idiocy. “Uh, yeah, hey Gabe,” he said, waving. “How’zzz things?”

“Things are fine,” said Gabriel. “Look, not that I’m not glad to see you’re okay, but you’ve both kind of been in my apartment for a while now.”

Aziraphale got to his feet and composed himself. “Of course,” he said, straightening his bowtie. “Sorry to impose.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, getting unsteadily to his feet and gritting his teeth against the ache in his legs at putting weight onto them. “Sorry I picked your apartment to experience unspeakable pain in.”

Gabriel spread his hands defensively. “I said ‘glad you pulled through.’”

“M’ sure you meant every word.” Crowley put one hand on the edge of the sofa to support himself. “Is, uh, my car still outside?” He was pretty sure he had left it parked illegally, and he’d ended up staying a lot longer than he’d planned. His stomach lurched. If they’d towed his beautiful car—

“You _will not_ drive in your current condition,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Yeah, but,” he argued. “My car.”

Aziraphale sighed and snapped his fingers. “Your car is perfectly fine. You’ll find it parked outside your apartment building.”

Crowley doubted Aziraphale would have left his car double-parked the way he liked it, but he couldn’t exactly argue. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Cab it is, I guess.” He stood there a moment, feeling like there was something else he should say. Demons didn’t get a lot of practice with expressing thanks. Crowley wasn’t sure when he’d last had occasion for gratitude. He had certainly never had this big of one. The usual words seemed too small.

“Well.” He wheeled around and headed for the door. “I’ll see you both around, I guess.”

“See you, Crowley,” said Gabriel.

“Mind how you go,” added Aziraphale.

“Nyeh,” Crowley shot back, and shut the door behind him.

In the lift, Crowley banged his head against the wall. He’d gone and screwed it up again. Gone and scared Aziraphale half to death on his account. Gone and put him to the trouble of staying there with Crowley for over twenty-four hours to keep him from losing his mind. Gone and somehow fallen even more in love with him.

The lift doors opened, and Crowley pulled himself together and stepped out. Fuck, had Crowley really asked him to stay on Earth _with him?_ He knew Aziraphale preferred this world to his home—they had that much in common at least—but the last two words could hardly pose a temptation to him. Yes, Aziraphale at least valued him enough as a friend to miss him when he wasn’t around, but Crowley doubted he would he want to—to do what, exactly? What was Crowley’s big plan here? Sit on a sofa with him? Hold his hand? Move in together?

Crowley rubbed his eyes, wishing his car were here so he could shut himself inside and have a moment of quiet privacy to himself. He’d miracle himself straight home, but he never liked what teleportation did to his sinuses. He just wanted Aziraphale _around,_ and happy, and maybe smiling at him from time to time _._ Just that would have been plenty.

_Mind how you go,_ said Aziraphale’s voice in his head. Not “See you later.” Not “Until next time.” Even Gabriel had given him a “See you.” Aziraphale gave no indication that he ever wanted to see Crowley again.

He stole a cab from someone else, but it didn’t make him feel any better. After staring blankly out the window for a few seconds, he noticed that Adele was singing about heartbreak through the radio. With a scowl, he snapped his fingers to change it into something with a lot more drums and guitars. The cab driver blinked in surprise and fiddled with the dial, but it wouldn’t go back. “I liked that song,” he muttered, frowning. Crowley ignored him and made the volume go louder.

The drive took much longer than usual, partly because of Crowley’s mood, and partly because the stupid cabbie drove the speed of traffic instead of Crowley’s usual breakneck pace. By the time they finally reached the apartment, Crowley muttered, “Finally,” thrust a wad of cash at the driver, and clambered out. He was going to need a stiff drink, a long nap, and lots of trashy reality television. It wouldn’t help him forget, and it probably wouldn’t make him feel any better in the long run, but dammit, it was something.

The sound of a gunshot went off in his pocket, and he jumped, fumbled to get out his phone, and dropped it on the pavement. The screen cracked. He fixed it with a quick miracle and picked it up, his heart beating hard. Was Aziraphale—?

No, it wasn’t Aziraphale. He blinked, staring at the screen. It was Beelzebub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel, coming home and opening the door to see what appears to be himself kneeling over a screaming, agonized Beelzebub: Oh what the fuck now


	11. A Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Council revises their plan to capture the traitor. Beelzebub finds a less-than-ideal way to reach Earth. Gabriel does some soul-searching, and Aziraphale comes to a decision.

“Lord Crowley.” Leviathan’s lips pulled back in a sharp-toothed smile as Beelzebub pushed open the doors. “Nice of you to be on time, for once.”

Internally, Beelzebub kicked themselves. They still hadn’t gotten used to showing up twenty minutes late to every meeting like Crowley apparently always did. It then occurred to them to wonder why, if they had shown up on time, the rest of the council was already seated. Hadn’t Belphegor told them the meeting was pushed back? Or, they thought uneasily, was that just a ruse to get them out of the room?

It wasn’t until they were taking their seat that the word “nice” registered, but by then it was too late to fire back a retort for the insult. “Looks like you’re still all waiting for me, though,” they said, flopping lazily into Crowley’s throne. “If this is a surprise party, remember you’re supposssed to yell ‘surprise.’ I can go out and come back in, if you want to try again.”

“It’s not a party,” growled Belphegor, who had never quite understood sarcasm. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“So just a normal day in hell?”

Leviathan leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “Something’s been brought to our attention. It seems you’ve been getting into the habit of chatting with your friends upstairs.”

Beelzebub looked at the other princes with an unperturbed expression, behind which their mind was racing. They hadn’t said anything incriminating over the phone, had they? They’d been so careful. They couldn’t remember Gabriel slipping up, but it was possible—That idiot, why had he even called—

“We know about your little plan,” said Asmodeus, their voice sickly sweet. “Trying to slither out of hell again, are we?”

“Though we’re more interested in what you planned to do after that,” Belphegor rumbled. “Catching fliesssssss?” He hissed mockingly, the sound like steam escaping a vent.

“Is anyone planning to get to the point anytime soon?” said Beelzebub, hiding their fear and pretending to be unimpressed by the needless theatrics. “Should I leave and come back later?” Or, maybe, just leave and never come back?

“We know Beelzebub’s alive,” Leviathan snapped.

Their blood went cold. So that was the point. They knew. But then why was Beelzebub still alive, and not in chains? And why phrase it like that?

“Which begs the question,” Leviathan went on. “Why did you tell us they weren’t? And why did you come back?”

Relief washed over them. The council just thought Crowley had lied about Beelzebub’s destruction. They were safe, as long as they could come up with a convincing lie. Scrambling to pull one together, they flashed the other princes a smile. “It’s all part of the plan. I wasn’t going to tell you guys until later. It was supposed to be a surprise.” They glanced around the table and waved one hand in the sort of lame way that Crowley might have done. “…Sssurprise!”

They all looked confused. That was good. As long as they were confused, they didn’t know the truth. “The angel and I came up with a plan. Beelzebub faked their own death, and we thought we’d let them believe they’d fooled us for a bit. Long enough for them to get careless. Then, when we come back—”

“Why not just grab them now?” Belphegor interrupted.

“See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to sssay anything,” said Beelzebub with a sigh. “I knew you guys would just—”

“Yeah, why not now?” Mammon echoed, ignoring Beelzebub. “No point letting that traitor live any longer.”

Beelzebub grimaced. “I sssee your point, but that wasn’t the plan. The angel and I agreed—”

“Who cares what you agreed?” said Leviathan. “We need an end to the riots now. That was the whole point of the execution. For Satan’s sake, Crowley, do you give these things any thought at all?”

Beelzebub’s eye twitched. They had really thought the constant insults would end once they were prince. Just another thing they had been wrong about. “You know what?” they said. “You’re right. I agree with you. Didn’t think about it that way before.” They got up from their chair. “I’ll jussst go back up to Earth, and—”

“No, sit down.” Asmodeus looked around at the other princes. “Come on, we can’t send _Crowley_ again. Not after how he botched things last time.”

“Good point,” muttered Mammon. “Who else, though?”

If the council sent another demon, Beelzebub would be stuck down here for good. “Wait,” they said.

“Duke Ligur, perhaps?” put in Leviathan. “He brought this to our attention, after all.”

“Gotta send Hastur, too, then,” put in Belial. “Those two are sort of a package deal.”

“Even better. We should have sent two demons from the beginning.”

“Wait,” said Beelzebub again. Nobody was listening.

“Pity we’ll be starting from scratch,” said Asmodeus. “Though since they think we think they’re dead, I guess we do have the element of surprise.”

“What if we—”

Beelzebub slammed their open palm on the table and shouted, “I know where the traitor lives!”

Finally, the others stopped talking and looked at them. They straightened and said more calmly, “You don’t trussst me? Fine. But I spent weeks watching the traitor. If I go along with Hassstur and Ligur, they can keep an eye on me for you, and we won’t be starting from scratch.”

They had sworn not to lead anyone to Crowley, of course, which could be tricky to navigate. And it was hardly ideal to have Hastur and Ligur babysitting them the whole time. But this was their chance to get back up to Earth. They could almost smell the not-brimstone.

“Very well,” said Leviathan. “Duke Ligur, Duke Hastur, and Prince Crowley. Are there any objections?”

Beelzebub looked around, making eye contact with each of the princes in turn, silently daring them to speak. Nobody did.

“Okay,” said Leviathan. “Then we have an agreement.”

For some reason, Aziraphale wasn’t following Crowley out of the apartment. He just stood there looking the door. “Um,” said Gabriel uncomfortably, “So are you waiting for a bus, or…”

“There was no need to kick him out of your apartment,” said Aziraphale. “He just woke up. You saw the pain he was in.”

“Well,” said Gabriel, but he couldn’t figure out how to finish the sentence. Putting aside how little he could stand seeing Crowley walking around as Beelzebub, how was he supposed to explain how disturbing it had been to come home and see Aziraphale, wearing his body, kneeling next to Crowley, who was screaming and thrashing around in Beelzebub’s body? It had taken an enormous effort just to push aside his reactions long enough to help Aziraphale with him.

“You knew about this.” Aziraphale turned around. Gabriel didn’t like the look on his face. Was he angry? He didn’t think he’d ever seen Aziraphale angry. “You could have told me.”

Was there a way he could avoid this comversation entirely? He had already tried kicking Aziraphale out of his apartment nicely, and this didn’t seem the time to try less polite methods. “Look, I don’t like this whole thing any more than you do,” he said. “I didn’t find out until a few days ago. Beelzebub didn’t bother to tell me, and Crowley—”

“Leave them out of this,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley couldn’t have told me. _You_ could have told me.”

He stood there uncomfortably, not looking directly at Aziraphale. He wasn’t used to letting people down, unless you counted Michael, who always seemed to be expecting it.

“You only switched with me yesterday so you could talk to Beelzebub,” said Aziraphale, with growing disbelief. “Didn’t you? You pretended to be put out with Crowley on my account—You tricked me. You _lied_ to me.”

Gabriel swallowed. “Okay, yeah, when you say it like that, it sounds bad. But, in my defense…”

In his defense, what? Crowley wanted Aziraphale to know, and Gabriel was mad at Crowley for looking like Beelzebub, who was the real target of his anger? He didn’t feel inclined to help Crowley fix his mistakes, since it wouldn’t help him feel any better? He was a spiteful person and didn’t want to be the only one whose friend had abandoned him? Whatever his motivations had been, they definitely hadn’t been good.

Aziraphale was still waiting for him to finish the sentence. “I…don’t have a good reason,” he admitted, throwing up one hand. “I don’t know. I’m not really a good person.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Clearly, my side—I mean, _your_ side gets that.”

Aziraphale sat down in the armchair. “I’m starting to think sides have nothing to do with it.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. That wasn’t something angels said. Angels didn’t doubt. Gabriel did, because he wasn’t good at being an angel, but he was the exception. Well, befriending a demon and saving his life might make Aziraphale something of an exception, too. “Well, they…they’re the ones who get to decide, right?” he said.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again.

“At this point, you’re the only one who thinks I might be decent,” Gabriel went on. “Might as well clear that up now.” He started counting things off on his fingers. “I’m selfish, I’m proud, I was too busy being mad at Beelzebub to act like a decent friend, and, yeah, I lied to you.” He looked down at his fingers. Four was too many. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. Sincere apologies weren’t something he did often. It felt…surprisingly good.

“That doesn’t…” Aziraphale frowned. “You’re not a ‘bad person,’ Gabriel. That’s not a static thing. Everyone has a chance to change.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Well, the humans, maybe. I didn’t mean it as an excuse. It’s just fact.”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “I’m not sure that—”

“They kicked me out of heaven,” said Gabriel, with a tight smile. “That’s a little hard to come back from.”

“Because you saved the Earth.”

“Yeah, because all my stuff was here.” He pointed at himself. “See? Selfish.”

Aziraphale looked confused. “That wasn’t the only reason.”

Gabriel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe I was gonna miss Beelzebub a little, too. You thwart someone for six thousand years, you get sort of attached. It happens.” Not that it mattered much now that Beelzebub was stuck in hell. It was something of a comfort to know that wasn’t entirely by their choice, though. That they would have come back up to Earth if they had the option. That Gabriel hadn’t been entirely wrong in assuming his attachment to the demon was mutual.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide. “You told me you did it to save the humans.”

Gabriel looked up at him blankly for a second. Two seconds. Then the panic hit him. Somehow, he had completely forgotten that his life was in Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale was the only one who could argue for heaven to let him live, and, until moments ago, his whole defense had rested on Gabriel’s selfless love for humanity. Which he had just admitted he didn’t have.

“Was that a lie as well?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but he didn’t know how to talk his way out of this one. His only excuse, that his life was on the line and he was scared, probably wouldn’t hold up in front of the archangels. “No,” he said unconvincingly.

Aziraphale got to his feet and started pacing, kneading his temples. “You didn’t do it for anyone but yourself,” he muttered to himself. “And possibly Beelzebub. But I still don’t think that—” He froze. For a moment, he just stood there in silence. Then he raised his head. “I need to go upstairs.”

Gabriel froze. “W-wait.” He wouldn’t give Gabriel’s secrets away, would he? The archangels would kill him. Aziraphale might be angry, but… “I said I’m sorry, I did mean that—”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, grabbing his coat. “It’s not about you, Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s stomach turned over. Of course it wasn’t. It was about protecting heaven. “Aziraphale, please—”

“I have to do this.” Aziraphale stopped in the doorway to look back at him, his expression a mix of sadness and anxiety. He gave an unconvincing smile. “Goodbye, Gabriel.”

The door shut before Gabriel could manage to do anything. He tried to get to his feet, but his knees buckled and he fell back into the chair. He was dead. The archangels would be here for him soon, and when they did—

When they did, he would need to be ready.

He took a deep breath, trying to force calm into his disobedient nerves. He had better composure than this. A second deep breath, and then a third, and he snapped his fingers and transported himself into Beelzebub’s kitchen.

He wrenched open all the cabinets, pulled out all the jars of honey—How much did they have?—and felt in the back corners. He opened every drawer, pulled them off their hinges, and checked to see if anything was taped underneath. Beelzebub had hellfire matches in here once, over a century ago. Surely they had saved some for emergencies. “Come on,” he said, his pulse quickening as his search continued to yield nothing. “Where’d you hide it?”

He went back through the pile of dismantled drawers in case any had hidden compartments. He got on his hands and knees and checked underneath and behind the furniture. He even knocked on the walls for any suspicious hollow spots, opened them up, and ended up exposing most of the wiring. “You paranoid bastard,” he shouted, his voice rising. “I know you kept some. You can’t trust me that much. Where is it?”

He stood in the middle of the dismantled kitchen, short of breath, tugging at his hair. Nothing. There was nothing. At least, not inside the cabin. But if…

He turned and looked out the window with a sinking feeling. The bees buzzed lazily around the hives. They knew Beelzebub, and would sting anyone else who came near. It was the perfect defense system.

He stepped outside gingerly. The buzzing set him on edge. Maybe, as an angel, he could convince them to leave him alone. He raised his hands and took a careful step toward the hives, then another. A few bees drifted over to investigate the newcomer. “Be not afraid,” he said, talking as much to himself as to the bees. He took another step.

One landed on his knuckle, and he flinched, flicking it off and scrambling back. Screw it, he couldn’t do this. Maybe Crowley was in a helpful mood and knew of a way to get some hellfire. Or maybe he could get out of this the old-fashioned way and just switch bodies with Crowley. Either way, he needed help, and the former prince of hell was the only person he had left to turn to.

He pulled out his phone and then remembered he didn’t have Crowley’s number saved. Aziraphale had texted it to him, and he’d sent it to Beelzebub, but he’d have to go back through his texts to find it. Gabriel shut his eyes and concentrated on finding Crowley’s demonic presence. It might be tricky this far from the city. Even when they were in the same place, he’d sometimes had trouble sensing Beelzebub, but if he really focused—

It did not take much concentration to find the demonic energy currently in the city. Crowley might be a prince, but he wasn’t that powerful. Whatever that presence was, it was too strong even for Crowley and Beelzebub together.

Gabriel’s pulse pounded in his ears. Archangels would be after him soon, and there were already demons in the city. He had to do something. His legs tensed with the impulse to run, but where could he go that the archangels wouldn’t eventually find him? And what if Crowley or Beelzebub was in trouble? What if they both were?

He had to at least find out what was going on, and he couldn’t go unarmed. He ran back into the cabin, grabbed Beelzebub’s umbrella, and changed it into something a little more visually intimidating. Then, focusing again on the massive spike of hellish energy, he brought himself straight to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now leave the "everyone is sad" part and enter the "everyone is terrified" part of this fic. Hooray!


	12. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new pair of demons in New York. Crowley experiences the dumbest car chase of all time.

_Run_

Crowley stared at the text. How the heaven had Beelzebub managed to get service? Had they bribed someone downstairs, or were they somehow not downstairs anymore? The latter seemed like a long shot. Crowley had bet on them having meetings nearly back-to-back for at least a year after they went back, and the riots to deal with whenever they had a free timeslot. Had they snuck up somehow?

He looked around, wondering what he was supposed to be running from, and to where. The single-word text wasn’t particularly instructive. He started to type back a question when more messages came in.

_Hastur and Ligur are after you_

“Oh, shit.” Crowley drew closer to the shadow of his apartment building and shot an anxious glance around the street. They weren’t in sight, at least, but he could feel them. They were close.

_Where?_

_Are you with them?_

Beelzebub shared their location, and Crowley sucked in his breath. They were only a handful of blocks away. His gaze landed on his Tesla—parked legally, and only taking up one space, thanks to Aziraphale—and he made a beeline for it.

_I’m trying to stall them while I think of a plan_

The next message consisted of a photo of Hastur and Ligur examining some pears at what appeared to be a farmer’s market. Both of them looked thoroughly confused, and more than a little impatient. Crowley groaned as he started the car with his phone-free hand. This was the perfect opportunity for a “stall” pun, maybe even a joke about Hastur and Ligur being a “rotten pair” (though the pear/pair thing wouldn’t work as well over text), but there was no time. Maybe later. The car peeled out into the road with a screech of rubber.

He drove with one hand and held his phone in the other, watching the map to make sure he was driving away from the blue dot of Beelzebub’s location. As he watched, it suddenly jumped three blocks closer. He sucked in his breath. Were they that fast? Or was the signal glitching?

_They aren’t interested in the pears_

_Trying something else_

The dot jumped again, this time two blocks to the north. It moved back a moment later. Crowley ground his teeth in frustration.

_Where are you?_

_Just give me an intersection_

_The map isn’t working_

No answer. Not even a typing bubble. Crowley stared at the phone for a terrifying minute, and then it flew out of his hand as his car jolted to a sudden stop. The airbags shot out of the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of him. When he miracled them away, water was spewing all over his windshield. He shouted a curse and backed away from the broken fire hydrant, trying not to think about what the front of his poor car must look like now. His phone slid across the floor on the passenger side, and he slowed down long enough to scramble for it, fumble and drop it, and then pick it up again and unlock it. Still no reply from Beelzebub.

_You there?_

_Where are you?_

_What’s going on?_

They hadn’t even opened his messages yet, and the location dot hadn’t moved. Crowley swallowed his frantic heartbeat. They must have dropped the phone or something. Just left it somewhere by accident. Definitely hadn’t been caught and killed and currently lying on the sidewalk, still wearing Crowley’s body, leaking black blood into the gutter.

He turned a corner and found himself facing a wall of brakelights. “Oh, come on—!” He honked a couple of times and got a few reply honks for his trouble. The traffic light a few blocks ahead was green, but nobody was moving. Crowley slammed both hands into the steering wheel. Downtown New York was a terrible place for a car chase.

Fine, forget the car. He clambered out, left the car in the middle of the street, and continued on foot. A glance down at his phone showed him that the blue dot still hadn’t moved. “Come on, Bee,” he said through his teeth, panting a little from the speed-walking. It didn’t help that his head still hurt from breaking the blood oath. It also didn’t help that he was trying to run on Beelzebub’s stubby little legs.

_Beelzebub you’re freaking me out here_

_Could really use an answer_

_Hello????_

The dot suddenly leapt ten blocks past Crowley. He tripped to a stop and turned to go in the opposite direction. His phone fired off a volley gunshot sounds as a flood of messages came in.

_Think I bought you some time_

_We’re on the subwat_

_Subway_

_Are you getting these_

_Hello_

_Oh theres no service down here_

_Were on the express train to Brooklyn they won’t figure it out for a while_

_Nevermind they figured it out_

_I just saw your messagws_

“Very helpful,” muttered Crowley, jogging back the way he had come. His car was still obstructing traffic where he had left it. He climbed in, made an impossibly tight U-turn in the middle of the road, and then realized that he was on a one-way street. “Out of the way,” he growled, inching menacingly towards the oncoming cars, the drivers of whom were making rude gestures at him. He made one back that was just as rude and significantly more occult. “Out of the _way._ ”

The drivers suddenly found that their cars were in reverse and their brakes weren’t working, and in a moment Crowley had enough space to shoot forward, hop the curb, and drive onto the sidewalk. Now he only had to worry about all the pedestrians. He looked around. There were way too many pedestrians. One had a dog. That wasn’t fair. He couldn’t hit a dog.

Another gunshot pulled his attention back to the phone.

_They’ve lost patience_

The typing bubble appeared for a moment, then vanished. That couldn’t be a good sign. Crowley stared at the phone for a moment, waiting for Beelzebub to say they were going to try something else, or suggest a plan, _something._

“Beelzebub.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. Hastur and Ligur sneered back at him. Between them sat Crowley’s own body, which gave an apologetic shrug.

Crowley opened the door and dove out of the car. He landed in a heap on the sidewalk and made the car keep going, carrying the demons away from him. The man and his dog suddenly found themselves several feet to the left as the car rocketed past. Crowley got to his feet panting. That should buy him enough time to—

The car thudded to a stop against a light pole. Hastur, Ligur, and Beelzebub-as-Crowley stepped out. “Oh,” said Crowley.

“Nowhere to run now, traitor,” said Ligur. His eyes, as well as the chameleon on his head, were bloodred. One of his hands was locked around Beelzebub’s wrist. “Crowley may have let you off easy, but we won’t be so kind.” He turned and shot Beelzebub a glare. “The council will hear about how you slowed us down, by the way. You’ll be lucky if they don’t charge you with treason as well.”

“Fine,” said Beelzebub, infuriatingly calm. “Any torture’s better than having to work with you two again.”

“Guys, c’mon,” said Crowley, holding up his hands and flashing a grin. “Let’s talk about this. I’m sure we can work something out.” None of this was on-brand for Beelzebub, but he was too scared to think about that.

“No,” said Hastur, stepping towards him. “You’re coming with us.”

“No he’s not.”

The other demons looked past Crowley in surprise. He turned around as well. Gabriel was standing there, aiming a super soaker at Hastur and Ligur with a gravity more suited to an assault rifle.

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your life,” said Gabriel. “You’re _welcome_. Let him go,” he said to Hastur and Ligur, waving the water gun. “And I’ll let you walk away.”

They both hesitated for a moment before they realized that Gabriel was holding a brightly colored piece of plastic, and not a deadly weapon. Hastur gave a high-pitched, stuttering laugh. “Is that a toy?”

“Yeah. It shoots water.” His lips pulled back in a cold smile. “Guess what’s inside this one.”

Crowley caught his breath and eyed the water dripping from the gun. Surely he wouldn’t actually risk…?

Hastur’s expression was an equal blend of confused and afraid. “What’s inside it?”

“I think you know,” said Gabriel impatiently.

“It’s holy water,” said Crowley helpfully, in case they hadn’t gotten it yet. “I’m immune, if you’ll remember.”

“Just let me do the talking, alright?” Gabriel said through his teeth, before turning back to Hastur and Ligur. “I’ll ask you one more time. Let him go.”

With an angry grunt, Ligur released Beelzebub’s wrist. They jerked their hand away and pushed between them to stand by Crowley and Gabriel. “You know they’re immune,” they said, pointing to Crowley. “You probably don’t know I am, too.”

“What?” Hastur looked from Beelzebub to the water gun, and scoffed. “That’s not possible.”

“What I did at the trial was impossible, too,” Crowley reminded them. Dimly, he was starting to understand Gabriel’s and Beelzebub’s plan. “It’s not too far a leap for me to be able to inoculate others, too.”

“Exactly,” said Gabriel. “Watch.”

Beelzebub threw up their arms. “Wait—!”

Gabriel hit them full in the face with a jet of water. Hastur and Ligur scrambled back. Beelzebub wiped the water from their eyes and glared at Gabriel.

“You’re gonna leave us alone now,” said Crowley, treating the two demons to what he hoped was at least a close approximation of Beelzebub’s chilling stare. Beelzebub fixed them with a much more convincing version, and Gabriel turned the water gun back on them.

Hastur’s face twitched with rage. He looked between the three of them for a moment. “I think you’re bluffing,” he said. He took a step forward. “That’s just regular water. You think you can fool us—”

“No,” said Ligur, throwing an arm in front of Hastur. His chameleon had turned yellow. “Don’t.”

Hastur blinked down at it, confused, then up at Ligur. “We can take them.”

“Not worth the risk.”

For a moment, Hastur looked disappointed. Then he turned back to the three of them and remembered to be angry. “You haven’t seen the last of us,” he spat. “We’ll be back. Not just us. They’ll send legions after you next. You can’t stand up to—”

“I don’t think you understand.” Beelzebub’s tone was flat, calm, almost bored. “Think about the riots downstairs. All those disorderly demons could do with someone to lead them, don’t you think?” They took a step forward, then another. “Perhaps a demon immune to holy water. Perhaps a demon who can make _them_ immune to holy water.”

Crowley couldn’t help but be impressed. Beelzebub would have made a great prince of hell, if things had turned out differently. He should have asked them for lessons.

“What do you say, Bee?” Beelzebub asked, still staring down Hastur and Ligur. “You feel like ruling hell?”

Crowley pretended to think about it for a moment. “Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “Not if I can stay up here. Undisturbed.” He gave Hastur and Ligur a meaningful look.

“We get it,” said Ligur, backing away and trying to pull Hastur with him. His chameleon, still mostly yellow, had taken on a sickly green tint.

Gabriel bared his teeth in another smile. “I knew we could reach an understanding. Run along downstairs and let them know the deal.” He waved the water gun, and a drop of water flicked off the end and landed several feet from the other two demons, who flinched. “Well? Scram.”

The ground opened up and swallowed them, and they were gone.

Crowley let out a deep breath. That had been much too close. “Nice job,” he said to Gabriel and Beelzebub. “Not—not a bad performance, for improv.”

Gabriel drew a shaky breath and let it out, looking from Beelzebub to Crowley with distaste. “Could you two switch back? It’s weird.”

Crowley hesitated. He’d switched in the first place so that he could live on Earth, and even with all the trouble it had caused, he hadn’t changed his mind about that. Except that hell now thought Crowley was a traitor, too. And Beelzebub and Gabriel had convinced them he was also immune to holy water. And Beelzebub’s threats should keep hell away for at least another couple of centuries.

Beelzebub was holding out a hand and looking impatiently at Crowley. Crowley took it, and shut his eyes against the pins-and-needles feeling that washed over him. Then it passed, and the lingering pain from breaking the blood oath vanished. “Much better,” he said, opening his eyes and looking down at himself. He stretched out his long arms in front of him, wiggling his fingers. Much, much better.

Beelzebub looked significantly less pleased. “What did you do to this body?” they asked, wincing and rubbing their temples. “Throw it in front of a train?”

“Uh, no,” said Crowley, not quite wanting to get into the whole thing with the blood oath. “What’ve you done with my sunglasses?”

“Guys,” Gabriel interrupted. They both turned to look at him, and it was only now that Crowley noticed he looked paler than usual, and his usual pomp had deflated. “I’ve got a problem,” he said quietly. “I need hellfire.”

For a second, both demons just stared at him. “ _What?_ ” Beelzebub screeched, their face red with fury.

“You know you’re not actually immune, right?” said Crowley.

“I’m in trouble,” said Gabriel. “Aziraphale—”

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley cut him off, mixed fear and anger coursing through his veins. Not Aziraphale, _not_ Aziraphale, never. He’d cremate Gabriel himself before he let him lay a hand on Aziraphale. He’d give him hellfire, all right. He’d—

“He went upstairs,” said Gabriel. “He knows I lied about why I saved Earth. He’s going to tell the archangels. They’ll come down, and then…”

Crowley blinked as his anger burned itself out. He gave a nervous laugh. “What, you think he’s gonna get you killed?”

Gabriel looked at him, still completely serious. He actually did believe it.

“Oh, come on,” said Crowley. “Aziraphale? The angel who saved a demon’s life? Have you met the guy?”

“He’s got a point,” said Beelzebub. “Wait, he did what?”

Crowley pointed at Beelzebub. “And they only met him for five minutes. He’s not gonna hurt you.”

Gabriel wasn’t convinced. “He was angry. He said he needed to go upstairs, and that it was something he needed to do, and then he said ‘goodbye.’”

Okay, Crowley admitted, that did sound serious. But Aziraphale wouldn’t get Gabriel executed, even if he was a little miffed. He wasn’t that kind of person. But it did sound like he was about to do something drastic, and…

And he’d said goodbye.

Something turned over in Crowley’s chest. Surely he hadn’t seen the angel for the last time. If he was going upstairs to argue Gabriel’s case to Michael, he had to come back and at least let Gabriel know the outcome. It wasn’t a _goodbye_ -goodbye. Right?

“Okay,” he said, already walking backwards towards his car. “He’s got to come back down, right? I’ll go find him. Clear this up. Misunderstanding.”

He hopped in the car, pulled away from the now-bent light pole, and took off down the street. “Just one more time,” he found himself muttering. He wasn’t sure whether he was hoping for a proper goodbye, or the chance to change Aziraphale’s mind, or just wanted to delay the inevitable pain of knowing he would never see him again. “Let me see him one more time.” He glanced up at the sky. “That much, at least. Please?”

No answer. As always. He would just have to park outside the entrance to heaven, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley just idling outside the pearly gates like a Lyft driver


	13. Jasmine Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has something he'd like to say.

Aziraphale clasped his hands together as the lift ascended past the edge of the Earthly plane, trying to simultaneously organize his arguments in his head and not think too hard about what he was about to do. It wasn’t going to be easy standing in front of the people who had effectively ruled over him his entire life and say the things he was planning to say. He would only be able to go through with it if he didn’t think about it. If he hesitated even for a moment, his nerves would get the better of him, and he’d never do it. It had to be now.

The lift doors opened, and he stepped out. He did not draw a deep breath, because that would be admitting to himself that he needed reassurance. He folded his hands behind his back and walked to Michael’s office. Like this was just another routine report. Like he had done it a million times before.

She didn’t even look up when he entered. “Aziraphale. More trouble with your associate?

“No.” His voice sounded too thin. He cleared his throat and said, more firmly, “I need to speak with you. And the other archangels, please.”

She looked up, eyebrows arched. “Now?”

“As soon as possible, if you don't mind.”

She pulled out her phone, looking pleased, and her fingers flew across its surface as she alerted the other archangels. She probably thought he had found a way to kill Gabriel. His stomach churned at the thought. He couldn’t believe he had almost let them do it. He’d stood there and watched while they ordered him to step into that column of deadly fire—

“They will be with us shortly.” Michael stepped out from behind her standing desk. “Follow me.”

Aziraphale nodded and obeyed. He felt oddly calm, but it was a numb sort of calm, and he knew that later it would all come crashing down on him and he would fall apart. He just had to keep it at bay until he had said what he needed to say.

Sure enough, Sandalphon and Uriel joined them in a matter of minutes. They met out in the open, in the middle of heaven’s endless white expanse. “Well?” said Sandalphon, his teeth glinting as he smiled. “Michael tells me you have news for us.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I know where Gabriel is. I know how he survived the hellfire.” He took a moment to look at all of them. They looked so pleased, so proud, so full of self-righteousness. It would not even occur to them that they could do wrong. How had he stood it for so long? “And I have no intention of telling you.”

It took a moment to sink in. The archangels blinked at him. Sandalphon’s jaw hung open stupidly. Uriel looked like she hadn’t quite understood.

“I do not believe Gabriel deserves execution,” said Aziraphale calmly, as if that explained everything. In his opinion, it did. “Bar him from heaven if you must, but death by hellfire was—is—too far.”

“He’s a traitor,” Sandalphon burst out. “We can’t just let him walk free—”

“Why not?” asked Aziraphale. “We’re supposed to be the good guys. We’re supposed to be on the side of forgiveness and mercy.” He let out an irritated sigh. “Have any of you even read the Bible?”

He knew they hadn’t. That was for the humans, not for them. Why would angels need a book to tell them what was right?

“Gabriel averted the Great war,” said Uriel. “He defied God’s plan—”

“If Armageddon was God’s plan, it would have happened.” said Aziraphale. “When was the last time any of you actually talked to the Almighty? Not the Metatron, but directly to the Her. Do we even know She’s still up here?”

The archangels were starting to look uncomfortable. They exchanged glances. “Where else would she be?” said Sandalphon.

“This is all besides the point,” said Michael. “Gabriel is a traitor, and must be made an example of for the sake of heaven. We cannot abide such duplicity, lest it take root.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Is this how you want to maintain loyalty to heaven? With fear? How does that make us any better than our enemies in the basement?”

They stared at him. Sandalphon’s eyes bulged.

“Goodness shouldn’t need to make itself feared,” said Aziraphale. “Fear breeds discontent. Michael,” he added, addressing her directly. “Did you never wonder why Gabriel went against orders? It didn’t happen overnight. I know how you treated him. To be honest, I can’t blame him for resenting you.”

Michael didn’t say anything. Her lips parted in disbelief that anyone would dare speak to her that way.

“This isn’t about Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, looking at all three of them again. “It’s about you. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Execution by hellfire? That’s horrifying. If you keep going this way, you’re only going to lose more angels.” He stopped. His hands were starting to shake behind his back. He gripped them tighter. He couldn’t crack, not now. If he cracked, he would shatter. “Starting with me.”

If they had been shocked before, that was nothing compared to now. Sandalphon’s eyes looked like they might pop out of his head. Uriel gave a small laugh, and then her smile evaporated as she realized it wasn’t a joke. Michael’s soul appeared to have momentarily left her body.

“You?” Uriel repeated.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Aziraphale,” said Michael in a slightly patronizing tone. “Be reasonable. Gabriel is a traitor. There’s no need for you to—”

“I have disobeyed direct orders,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Interfered with the capture of a traitor. Fraternized with demons. Whatever punishment you decide upon for Gabriel, I deserve the same.”

The archangels couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Gabriel’s time on Earth had made him a bit of a black sheep in heaven, and Aziraphale knew it had been all too easy for them to paint the outsider as a traitor, particularly once they found out about his demonic partner in crime. But Aziraphale had always kept his head down and done his work. He did as he was told, didn’t ask too many questions, and didn’t cause trouble. He was one of the good ones. One of them.

Michael cleared her throat. “Let us discuss this,” she said, an uncharacteristic quaver in her voice. She nudged Uriel, and the three of them withdrew a short distance to talk it over.

Aziraphale craved a deep breath, but still would not allow himself to draw one. He prayed he had made himself clear enough. For millennia, he had read reports of wars and deaths and other horrors enacted by angels, and he hadn’t said a thing. The only word for it was cowardice. It had taken Gabriel’s near-execution to push him over the edge. It wasn’t about Gabriel. It had never been about Gabriel. How had it taken him so long to recognize that?

The archangels were in furious debate, glancing over at Aziraphale from time to time. Sandalphon’s voice drifted over briefly, and Aziraphale caught the words, “Perhaps the Metatron…?” followed by Michael saying, “No, no, no need to involve…” He looked up at the endless white fog heaven had instead of a ceiling, and prayed. Wherever She was, he hoped She was on his side. He had a feeling She would be. But the archangels were a different story. If they did decide Gabriel ought to be executed after all—

His hands were shaking again. He gripped them tighter, until he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. This was a leap of faith. He couldn’t let himself think about what might happen if he fell.

The archangels were walking back to him. He swallowed and straightened, holding his head high to receive his verdict. “Principality Aziraphale,” said Michael. “You must understand that we cannot allow traitors to remain in heaven.”

Aziraphale gave a stiff nod. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure they must hear it. He wasn’t breathing.

“You will not be allowed here any longer,” she said. “Henceforth, you shall be exiled to Earth.”

Aziraphale held back a sigh of relief. “And Gabriel?”

“The same goes for all who betray heaven.”

He let out a slow breath through his teeth and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us,” muttered Sandalphon. “We’re punishing you.”

“You know the way out,” said Uriel.

Aziraphale nodded and smiled at each of them in turn. “It’s been a pleasure working with you all,” he lied. “Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.” He turned and made his way to the elevator. It was over. Gabriel was free. And Aziraphale could live out the rest of his days on Earth.

He turned around and smiled back at the archangels as the doors closed on heaven’s sterile whiteness for the last time. Then he let out a much deeper breath that he realized he had been holding, pried his shaking hands apart, and let himself crumple against the wall of the elevator.

He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to, as an angel, but it was something else to be totally unable. He wrapped his arms around himself—his whole body was shaking now—leaned against the wall, and shut his eyes, trying to breathe and coming up with only short gasps. His heart was beating far too fast, so fast that a human might have feared for their life.

He had done that. He had just argued with the archangels. They—they could have killed him.

_Ding._

The doors opened, and so did Aziraphale’s eyes. He stumbled out of the elevator and walked down the office building’s long foyer. He barely managed to get through the revolving door. He felt dizzy. He wasn’t sure if he could get home like this.

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley was outside. The old Crowley, long-limbed and red-haired, Crowley inside and out. Aziraphale could tell at once by the way he moved, the tone of his voice. His sunglasses were gone, and his golden eyes locked onto Aziraphale when he walked out. He had only seen Crowley’s eyes once before. They were so bright in the sunlight now, strange and gold and dazzling. They flicked down to Aziraphale’s trembling hands “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. He would be, anyway.

“What happened up there?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He would have explained more, but he didn’t have the breath to speak, and didn’t think he could control his voice anyway.

His friend seemed to understand. “Want a ride home?”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley led him to the car and opened the door for him. Aziraphale started to get in and paused. The front bumper of Crowley’s beautiful car was completely smashed in.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, following his gaze. “Had a bit of an accident. Tell you all about it later. It still drives okay.”

Aziraphale got in. He was so glad Crowley was there. He was the only one Aziraphale would have wanted to be there.

They were both mostly silent on the drive. Aziraphale shut his eyes and tried to stop shaking, and couldn’t. His heart was pounding and he didn’t know why. He barely even noticed how fast Crowley was driving, or how much property damage he almost caused, or how many pedestrians he almost injured. He just wanted to get home.

“You, uh, want to talk about it at all?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale drew a shuddering breath. “Maybe later,” he said, finally finding his voice.

Crowley nodded and said nothing else.

They reached the apartment building, and Aziraphale stepped out. He barely registered the careful hand on his shoulder, steadying him, guiding him up the steps and into the elevator, then down the hall to his apartment. Crowley opened the locked door without any keys, led him inside, and eased him gently onto the couch after pushing aside the mountain of throw pillows to make room. “Right,” he said. “Comfortable?”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley seemed to be getting ready to leave. “Wait, could you…” He swallowed, knowing he was going to sound foolish, but he didn’t want to be alone right now. “Could you stay with me for a little while?”

Crowley stopped. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

Gratitude flooded Aziraphale. How had this happened, that a demon should be the one there to take care of him when heaven cast him out? How had it happened that Crowley had shown Aziraphale more kindness in the span of two months than the other angels ever had in six thousand years?

Crowley pulled up a chair and sat. Aziraphale turned and curled up sideways across the couch, trying to preserve warmth even though his shivering had nothing to do with cold. He shut his eyes. There didn’t seem anything to do but let it pass. At least he wasn’t alone. Even with his eyes shut, he could sense Crowley there, a warm, steady, calming presence. He focused on Crowley and tried to breathe.

There was a blanket around him, even though he didn’t remember there being before, and he clutched it around himself, burying his fingers in the microplush. It was so unbelievably soft, softer than anything they had in heaven. His breath came in shuddering bursts. He was done with heaven. Or, rather, heaven was done with him. He ought to be ashamed and horrified, but the only feeling he could find was relief.

The terror-induced adrenaline slowly wore off, and Aziraphale’s breathing slowly returned to normal. He couldn’t have said how long it had been, but when he opened his eyes, it was dark outside. Crowley was not in the chair anymore. Aziraphale pulled himself half-up, something aching in his chest. He hadn’t noticed Crowley leave. He hadn’t realized he was alone again.

Footsteps behind him made him turn. “Think you can hold a mug, angel?” said Crowley, walking in with one in his hands. A wisp of steam curled up from the surface of something that smelled like tea. “You, er, you like jasmine, right?"

Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything to say. Something warm and light was blooming inside him as he looked at Crowley. At the mug, completely unasked for. At Crowley. (Was this what it felt like?) He managed a nod. When Crowley placed the warm mug so carefully in his hands, and their fingers brushed, he nearly broke down into tears.

“It’s…good of you to be here.” He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. He couldn’t.

“Nah,” said Crowley dismissively, slumping back in the chair. “Demon. Nothing about me is ‘good.’”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale objected. _You’re wrong. Everything about you is good._

He did not say it. He just looked at Crowley and wondered how he had never noticed it before.

“Are you alright?”

Aziraphale felt like his heart might collapse on itself any minute, like a star grown too big. “I…I’m fine.” He hid behind a sip of tea. As if that would help—it was perfect, perfect, this tea that he had never asked for. “Just…shaken.”

Crowley shot a glare at the ceiling. “What did they do to you up there?”

“Nothing.” It wasn’t anything they did. It was the whole way they treated you, and the cold, hard whiteness all around, like you were an ant in a lab under a microscope. The formalities and empty smiles. The endless justifications and lofty-sounding phrases to paper over what was really just disdain and spite.

“Gabriel’s safe,” he said, sipping the tea. “They’ll leave him alone from now on.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “You convinced them? How’d you manage to do that?”

Aziraphale’s hands started to shake again, and he had to set down the mug to keep from spilling it. There had been moments when he really thought they would kill him. He had feared for his life. He shouldn’t be afraid in heaven. He was starting to realize that he always had been.

“It doesn’t matter.” Maybe, years down the line, he’d tell Crowley what he had told the archangels. If he did see Crowley again years down the line. Now that he was back in his own body, Aziraphale had to assume that he had gone back to the old plan. His heart twisted into a knot at the thought of losing Crowley. He could only hope they still had some time together before he was called back downstairs for good.

“Beelzebub’s safe too,” said Crowley. “Gabriel stared Hastur and Ligur down with a water gun, and Beelzebub made some pretty extravagant threats. Hell won’t want to come after them again.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes. So that was it. He’d finished what he came for, and this was goodbye. “That’s good,” he lied. His voice shook, and he could feel the tears swelling in his throat. Not now, not right after he’d realized what this feeling was. It was cruel.

Crowley nodded, slumped forward onto his knees, looking down at his hands. “So what now?” he asked. “Tell me you’re not going back up there. Look what they do to you.”

The knife in his ribcage twisted a little deeper at the genuine care in Crowley’s voice. “No. They don’t want me there anymore.”

Crowley’s head jerked up, and he sucked in his breath. “They cast you out?”

“Not, er, all the way down,” said Aziraphale. “Just to Earth. I’m to have the same ‘punishment’ as Gabriel.”

“Really?” Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “That’s…” He paused, apparently waiting to take the cue for his reaction from Aziraphale, who was giving him nothing to go on. “…Good,” he eventually decided. “I mean, obviously, good that they didn’t send you all the way down. Too much fire there.” He looked around at Aziraphale’s extravagant walls of shelves. “Not good for books. You wouldn’t like it. Well, no one does, obviously. It’s hell. That’s the whole point.”

Aziraphale wished he could just end the conversation instead of dragging it on any longer. He drew a painful, shuddering breath and nodded.

“Plus, um.” Crowley waved his hand inarticulately. “Be nice to have someone to go to shows with. Don’t think Gabe and Beelzebub really go in for musical theater.”

Aziraphale raised his head, blinking. Could Crowley mean what he hoped he meant? “Do you mean to say…you’re staying here?”

“‘Course I’m staying here,” said Crowley. “You didn’t think I changed my mind? After all the stupid stuff I did?”

It was such wonderful news that Aziraphale couldn’t contain himself any longer. Tears spilled out of his eyes. He set down the tea to keep it from being marred by the salt and wiped his face.

“Oh—no—” Alarmed, Crowley started to get up. “Don’t cry, angel. Sorry I brought it up—”

“No,” said Aziraphale, looking up with a smile as he struggled to pull himself together. “I’m glad. It will be good to have a…a friend here with me.”

Crowley sat back in the chair. “Well, y—Ngk—You’d have _Gabriel._ ”

Aziraphale stilled, his smile faltering. Gabriel. He had almost forgotten what lovely things Crowley had said about Gabriel. He had forgotten that it was Crowley who said them, and not Beelzebub. _He’s got these eyes…_

He wiped his eyes as the thing blooming in his chest wilted. Gabriel’s purple eyes were rather striking, he admitted. For that matter, so were Crowley’s. It was an unusual match, to be sure—But then, who was Aziraphale to judge?

“I suppose,” he said, drawing a deep breath. _Get it together._ “Still, I’m glad.”

Crowley looked at him for a moment. Aziraphale hoped the change in his mood had not shown too much. “Yeah, me too,” he said, in a tone that was difficult to decipher.

“I, um.” Aziraphale swallowed, picking up the tea again. “I think I’ll be okay by myself now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Crowley got to his feet. “I’ll…will I see you around?”

Aziraphale managed a smile as best he could. “I hope so.”

“Alright. See you, then.” With his hands in his pockets, he walked to the door. “If you need anything else,” he said, pausing and turning around, “anything at all, you have my number, yeah?”

He was so unbearably thoughtful. It was difficult for Aziraphale to keep his composure. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“Don’t,” Crowley protested. “Didn’t do anything. Just sat there.”

He heard the door open and shut, but couldn’t bring himself to look at Crowley any longer. He ought to be happy. He was going to live on Earth, and his best friend was here with him. Gabriel and Beelzebub were safe. Everything had turned out better than he could have ever hoped. But somehow, all he could think of when he picked up the mug of tea was what Crowley had said about Gabriel. _Clever, might even say brilliant. He gets me in a way nobody else does._

Jealousy was unbecoming of an angel, even one who wasn’t allowed in heaven anymore. Aziraphale tried not to feel it, but he couldn’t stop the disappointment creeping into his heart, and the pain of knowing he loved Crowley while Crowley’s feelings were for someone else. Perhaps this was only fair, since everything else had worked out so unexpectedly well. It was a fair trade. Wasn’t it?

That didn’t stop it from hurting. And it didn’t stop him from cradling the mug to his chest and crying into that perfect cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is a goddamn hero but he really is that dense.
> 
> The rest of this will go up pretty fast over the next two weeks. I'm planning to finish it by next Friday.


	14. Scoreboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two enemies-turned-business-partners have a lot to talk about.

Beelzebub scowled after Crowley as he got into his car. There went their witness in case Gabriel decided to punch them in the face or something. Though, if he was in the mood to punch Beelzebub, they doubted he’d have any qualms about doing it in front of Crowley. They turned back to Gabriel, who was still just standing there with the water gun. “Well?” they asked. “You wanna yell at me some more?”

“You wanna apologize?”

Of course he wouldn’t make this easy. “I did.”

“No,” said Gabriel, tilting his head and pretending to think about it, “I distinctly remember that it was Crowley who apologized to me over the phone.”

Beelzebub ground their teeth. They had a feeling this was an argument they weren’t going to win. “I’m sorry,” they said through their teeth.

Gabriel looked mildly surprised. “That looked like it hurt,” he said. “Swallowing all that pride.”

“Okay.” Beelzebub turned to leave. “I said it. I don’t have to stay and listen to this.”

“Wait, wait.” When they looked back, Gabriel was holding out an umbrella Beelzebub recognized. “This is yours.”

Frowning, Beelzebub snatched it back. “Why do you have this?”

“Grabbed it from your place,” said Gabriel. “I didn’t have a water gun, so I figured another kind of gun would be easy to turn into—”

“This is my regular umbrella, said Beelzebub. “Why were you at my place?”

Gabriel looked at the ground. “Looking for hellfire.”

Beelzebub shut their eyes for a moment against the anger simmering inside them. When they opened their eyes they asked, slowly and with deliberate calm, “Why would you think I had hellfire?”

“You had those matches that one time—”

“I burned those in front of you! Did you think I kept some?” They couldn’t believe this. “Did you think I kept hellfire matches all this time, Gabriel? You thought that?”

“Didn’t you?”

“No! Did you keep any holy water?”

“Of course I didn’t—”

“Then there you go.” Beelzebub waved a hand to signal that the matter was settled. They, at least, knew Gabriel well enough to take him at his word. They would have hoped that after all this time he would do the same for them.

“You went back to hell, demon,” said Gabriel, raising a hand and letting it drop. “It’s like I don’t know you at all.”

Why did that sting, coming from him? Beelzebub didn’t like to be understood. That meant they were predictable, which meant someone else could get the upper hand. Not being known was a good thing. At least, it had been when they were in the business of demonic wiles. They supposed things were different now.

“No,” they said, in what was supposed to be a dismissive tone. “Me and my power fantasiezzzz. That’s nothing new.”

“Hm,” said Gabriel, in a tone that might have been agreement. “How was it, ruling hell?”

“Awful.” They shuddered, remembering the back-to-back meetings in stuffy rooms, the overcrowded hallways, the handful of fluorescent lights that always flickered at just the right frequency to give them a headache. “Wouldn’t do it again for the world.”

Gabriel nodded. “Well. Welcome back.”

They had been so busy trying to stall Hastur and Ligur that they hadn’t had time to soak in the fact that they had escaped, and the fact now hit them unexpectedly. There was a real sky here, and growing things, and wind that didn’t stink of entrails and rotting eggs. The city air was far from fresh, but it was the best that Beelzebub had breathed in weeks. Even the din of traffic was a relief compared to the constant clamor of hell. And they got to stay here, forever. “Thanks,” they muttered. “For giving me a hand with Hastur and Ligur. I owe you.”

“We’re friends, Beelzebub,” said Gabriel. “We don’t have to keep score.”

Beelzebub didn’t know what to say to that. That wasn’t how the two of them had ever done things. Beelzebub might have been angry about it if they weren’t busy with a half dozen other emotions at the moment.

“So.” Gabriel drew a deep breath. “Guess you’ll want to get back to your bees. They’re still buzzing around as usual. I couldn’t tell you much more than that.”

In all the commotion, Beelzebub had almost forgotten about the bees. And they could enjoy their stash of honey back at the cabin. And fresh fruit, and bread, and all the other things Earth had that hell didn’t—

Gabriel still looked a great deal paler than usual. He was trying to hide it, but Beelzebub noticed the way his eyes flitted around for signs of danger. “What, still scared of the archangels?” they said sarcastically. “Of that fluffy marshmallow Aziraphale?”

Gabriel nodded just slightly. That looked like it hurt too, swallowing his pride enough to admit it. Beelzebub supposed they couldn’t blame them, having just experienced the panic of getting caught by their former coworkers. And Gabriel had worked for _Michael_. They sighed, rubbing their forehead. “Do you want to hide out at my place ‘till Crowley figures out what’s happening?”

Gabriel nodded again, more quickly this time. “I’d appreciate that.”

With a snap of Beelzebub’s fingers, both of them were standing outside the cabin. “Oh,” said Gabriel, getting an odd look on his face. “Maybe don’t go inside just yet. I kind of made a mess earlier.”

Beelzebub’s eyebrows rose. “What, did you rip apart the walls looking for nonexistent hellfire?”

Gabriel swallowed. “I’ll, uh, fix everything right up.”

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“It was a low point, alright?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, and walked around the cabin to the beehives instead. The familiar insect hum sank into their bones, and their shoulders eased. It was so peaceful out here. A few of the trees were starting to turn yellow, adding a new color to the surrounding landscape, and the sunlight was warm on their underground-pale skin. They stood there a moment, just soaking in the quiet and the sunlight and breathing the smell of the trees.

“Okay, it’s all good in here now,” Gabriel called from inside, as if he had done more than just walk inside and snap his fingers. “You can come in.”

Beelzebub hadn’t been outside in so long that all they wanted to do was lay down in the middle of the beehives and just listen to their buzzing and the wind in the trees. Well, they also would have liked to hear about whatever Crowley had done that made Beelzebub’s body feel like it had fallen from a third-floor window, but Gabriel didn’t seem to be planning on coming outside anytime soon. Beelzebub frowned, looking at the cabin. He’d drawn all the shutters.

“And you say I’m the paranoid one,” said Beelzebub, opening the door. “You really think shutters are going to help if Michael comes looking for you?”

That might not have been the right thing to say. Gabriel swallowed, looking a little green. “You’re right. They’ll find me anyway.” He looked up at Beelzebub. “You probably shouldn’t be here when they do.”

Beelzebub snorted. “You couldn’t handle the archangels on your own. What are you gonna do if they show up?”

Gabriel rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know if there’s much I can do.”

What on Earth had happened while they were in hell? This wasn’t the Gabriel they knew. Where was all the overconfidence? The scheming? The Gabriel Beelzebub remembered wouldn’t have just rolled over and let the archangels kill him. The whole swap had been his idea in the first place.

Beelzebub got out a jar of honey and a spoon and clacked them on the table hard enough to jolt Gabriel out of whatever cycle of panic he was stuck in. “ _If_ they come,” they said, “we deal with them. We could easily swap again.”

“They’ll know we did that last time,” said Gabriel. “And if they find both of us together—”

“I could probably find some normal matches in here,” said Beelzebub. Gabriel was monopolizing the only chair in the cabin, so they summoned a second one and sat down. “Then I could bluff through it like you did with Hastur and Ligur.”

Gabriel frowned. “Michael will be harder to fool.”

Beelzebub sighed in frustration. Why Gabriel had to shoot down every single idea? “I’d like to see her think straight with a swarm of bees attacking her.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. Beelzebub had menaced him with the bees once before, but it had been a hollow threat. They wouldn’t sacrifice their worker bees by making them waste their one sting. At least, not without a good reason.

“They’re not gonna kill you, Gabe.” Beelzebub unscrewed the jar. _Not if I have anything to say about it._

“Oh.” Gabriel looked down at the table for a moment without speaking. Then he said, “Thanks.”

Beelzebub shrugged. “Just repaying the favor.”

Gabriel looked up, and Beelzebub realized their mistake. Gabriel had knocked over their scoreboard about ten minutes ago. That wasn’t how they did things anymore. “I told you—”

“I know what you said.” Beelzebub’s voice rose a little in anger. _Let me have this excuse, dammit._ Like Gabriel was one to talk, after that whole thing with the bees. The two of them had hidden their friendship in elaborate debts and repayments and mutually-beneficial agreements for centuries. It was going to take some time to get used to just being friends for the sake of it.

Beelzebub didn’t want to talk about this at the moment. They didn’t know how. Instead, they turned their attention back to the jar of honey and changed the subject. “So what’d I miss?”

“A lot,” said Gabriel. “Mostly Aziraphale and me thinking you were dead, and then him thinking you killed Crowley and stole his car.”

Beelzebub snorted. “What would I want with a car?”

“Not ‘why would I kill Crowley’?”

“You’ve met him. He’s annoying.”

Gabriel looked confused. He held up his hands in a question, opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head. “Anyway. So he came begging me to tell Aziraphale he wasn’t dead.” He grimaced. “He’s, um. He’s sort of got a thing for him.”

Beelzebub stopped, a spoonful of honey hovering just above the jar. “Who, Crowley? Crowley, Prince of Hell, has ‘got a thing’ for Aziraphale?”

Gabriel nodded, cringing. Beelzebub dropped the spoon back into the jar and burst out laughing. “You’re joking,” they said, when they could breathe again. “Say you’re joking.”

“I wish.”

“Crowley’s got a crush on an angel.” Beelzebub leaned back and wiped tears from their eyes. “Oh, that’s _hilarious_.”

“Maybe for you,” said Gabriel. “You’re not the one who’s had to deal with it.”

That only made Beelzebub laugh harder. “Dealing with it, how?” they gasped. “What, have you been giving him dating tips?”

“God, no!” Gabriel nearly retched. “He made me go to lunch with both of them, and spent the entire time just staring at him. It was even more nauseating than a regular lunch. And apparently he gave him a cake, as an apology for accidentally faking his own death?”

“Faking his own—”

“Aziraphale caught him driving Crowley’s car.”

“Oh, right.” Beelzebub was having trouble following the thread of the story. “When did that happen?”

Gabriel rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I should start over.”

The story made only marginally more sense in chronological order. Beelzebub got lost pretty quickly. “Ohio?” They interrupted. “You ran all the way to Ohio?”

“It was a low point!”

“Having a lot of those recently,” Beelzebub muttered.

Gabriel huffed and rolled his eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

“So you ran to Ohio?”

“Look, it’s not important. I ran for _a while,_ okay?”

“If it’s not important, why—”

“Oh my God. I’m telling a story here.”

By the time Gabriel reached the end, Beelzebub was almost as confused as they had been at the start. They had also eaten the entire jar of honey without realizing it. They went ahead and started on another. What they really craved was fresh fruit, but they weren’t about to leave Gabriel alone here while they went to find some. There was no telling what he might do without someone to keep an eye on him.

The conversation turned to the infernal as Beelzebub recounted their recent experiences on the Dark Council. When they described the riots, and Gabriel preened a little and said, “You’re welcome,” and Beelzebub had to remind him that they were not at all thankful for it. Before Beelzebub realized how late it was, the sun was setting outside, and neither of them had sensed any archangels or heard anything from Crowley. Beelzebub frowned at the lack of notifications on their phone. They ought to have heard something by now. Trying to be discrete, they texted Crowley under the table.

_What’s the delay_

_Gabe won’t leave my cabin unless he knows he’s safe._

_Everything’s fine_

_I think_

_Didn’t see any archangels anyway_

“What’s that?” asked Gabriel, noticing the buzz of the phone. “Is it Crowley? What’s going on?”

Beelzebub shook their head. “No news.”

_What happened_

_Not sure_

_I’ll let you know once I find out_

_Where’s Azrapahle_

_Azitsphale_

_I wouldn’t know about them but Aziraphale is right here_

_Ask him then._

_No_

_He’s asleep_

“That’s a lot of texts for no news,” Gabriel pointed out.

“He’s being difficult,” said Beelzebub. “Well, being Crowley.”

_So wake him up._

_No_

_Sorry if his nap schedule is inconvenient for you_

_Why are you watching him sleep_

_What_

_I’m not_

_Who does that_

_I’m just here and he happens to be asleep_

_Mind your own business_

_Or should I say_

_Buzziness_

_Cause of the bees get it_

_And you’re a fly_

_Beelzebub do you get it_

Beelzebub locked the phone before they had to read any more puns. Aziraphale could be asleep for a matter of hours, or weeks. You never knew with supernatural entities. And as much as they might have missed Gabriel’s company, Beelzebub wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of having a roommate.

“He hasn’t seen any archangels,” they informed Gabriel, who looked like he might explode if he didn’t find out what was going on right this second. “Aziraphale came back and decided to take a nap. That’s all I know.”

“I don’t like it,” muttered Gabriel. “He could be here to kidnap me. Or to bring them to wherever I am. Maybe they’re tracking him.”

“I’ll rescind his brunch invitation, then,” droned Beelzebub. “Would you _stop worrying_.”

One of them needed to have a clear head, anyway, and Beelzebub’s mind was currently scrambling for more plans to outsmart the archangels if they showed up. They still couldn’t sense anything unusual, but maybe that was their plan. Maybe Aziraphale was supposed to alert them to Gabriel’s position so that they could flash down, sudden as lightning, and smite him before either of them could react.

“Beelzebub?”

They looked up. “Maybe we should go ahead and switch, just to be safe.”

Gabriel held out a hand across the table. Beelzebub took it, and they traded forms. The aches Crowley had left in Beelzebub’s body faded. They stretched Gabriel’s neck from side to side. Naturally, after finally coming home to their own body, they now had to adjust to another one. That seemed about right for how things had been going lately.

At least Gabriel made a better Beelzebub than Crowley. It was easier looking across the table and seeing him in their body than seeing Crowley there. Gabriel grimaced and pressed his fingers to his temples. “Oh, hell, is that all from the blood oath?” he said. “Jeez. Poor Crowley.”

“Well, he was supposed to be completely dead inside, so I’d say he got a pretty good deal.” Beelzebub took another spoonful of honey from the half-empty jar in front of them.

“No,” said Gabriel, raising his eyebrows in warning. “Don’t do that. I don’t want to switch back and find my stomach full of bee puke.”

Beelzebub lowered the spoon and gave him a look. “Bee puke?”

“Or whatever honey comes from. Just.” He shuddered. “Digestion.”

If they couldn’t even eat now, Beelzebub was definitely starting to regret suggesting the switch. “I had some mead fermenting when I left. Would you rather I chug that instead, and get you hammered?”

“No! God. No.” Gabriel held up both hands to stop them. “Why did we even do this?”

Beelzebub folded their arms and waited for him to remember. He did, and shot them an annoyed look.

“What is it with you and food, anyway?” Beelzebub had always assumed that it was an angel thing, to avoid gluttony or something. But Gabriel had mentioned Aziraphale and a cake, so it couldn’t be all angels.

“It’s weird,” said Gabriel. “You mush things up with your teeth, and then they go inside you so you can leech the nutrients out of them. I mean.” He shuddered. “Physical bodies are weird.”

“You run around dripping gallons of sweat for fun,” Beelzebub pointed out.

“First of all,” said Gabriel, raising a finger, “I do not sweat. Or, if I do, it’s only for appearances.”

“When you don’t, I bet it’s also for appearances.”

“Okay, what about you, then?” said Gabriel, gesturing at the jar of honey. “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to eat it straight out of the jar with a spoon like that.”

Beelzebub looked down into the jar. “It tastes good,” they said. “It’s just pure sugar. And I don’t have to worry about the health problems that humans do, so why not?”

“And the bees,” Gabriel went on. “Do you just sit out there staring at them? What’s the deal?”

Anger bubbled up at the back of Beelzebub’s throat. “What if I do? What does it matter to—”

“Wow, no need to get defensive,” said Gabriel. “It was a legitimate question.”

Oh. That was okay, then. “I don’t know,” they said honestly. “They make me feel…” What, exactly? Relaxed, but not lifeless? At peace? How was Gabriel going to understand that? “I just like them.”

Gabriel didn’t look satisfied, but he didn’t press the matter. He already knew how important the bees were to Beelzebub. He didn’t need to understand why. “You know, I always thought it was weird for a demon to have a normal little cabin in the woods.”

“I’m a weird demon,” said Beelzebub flatly.

“Fair enough,” Gabriel agreed with a shrug. “I guess they did fire you for it.”

“Yeah,” said Beelzebub, “the Armageddon stuff was just an excuse. They really just tried to kill me for being _weird._ ”

Gabriel shrugged. “Honestly? That’s not hard to imagine for my side.”

Now that the subject of heaven had come up again, both of them lapsed into silence. Gabriel’s fingers tapped awkwardly on the table.

“You know,” said Beelzebub, “part of me hopes they do show up. I’ve been itching to break Michael’s nose.”

“Don’t you dare,” said Gabriel. “I’ve got dibs.”

“My grudge against Michael goes back way further,” said Beelzebub. “You can have Sandalphon.”

“I’ve got both! You had your chance to mess with them when you went up there. It’s my turn.”

“It’s a shame you’re about a foot shorter than usual,” said Beelzebub. “Can you even reach Michael’s nose?”

Gabriel frowned. “Are you insulting your own height?”

“I’m just pointing out a fact.”

They went on like this for a while, bargaining over which angels they each had the right to punch in the nose, and eventually Beelzebub had to concede that Gabriel had more reason than they did. “At least leave me one or two,” said Beelzebub.

“Aziraphale?”

Beelzebub considered for a moment. “Nah, I’m pretty sure my fist would just sink right through, and he’d spring back like a loaf of bread.”

Gabriel looked down a little uncomfortably. “He’s not as soft as you might think.”

“Right,” said Beelzebub. “Because he’s sending Michael and the others to do the dirty work for him.”

“That’s not what I—”

Beelzebub’s phone buzzed, cutting off Gabriel. Both of them stared at it for a few seconds, and it buzzed again. Beelzebub snatched it up.

“I still don’t sense them,” said Gabriel.

“Me either.” The texts were still coming in. Beelzebub’s eyes widened as they read.

_Gabe’s good to go_

_Aziraphale argued with the archangels for him_

_Instead of execution he’s exiled to Earth now_

_They’ll leave him alone_

_And you guys thought he was going to get Gabe executed!_

_You seriously thought that!!!_

_What is wrong with you??????_

“What?” asked Gabriel urgently. “They’re coming, aren’t they? Oh, God, they’re already here.”

“They’re not coming.” Beelzebub turned the phone around. “I guess you’re right. He’s not so soft after all.”

Gabriel leaned forward to read the messages and drew in his breath. He leaned back, tried to run his fingers through his hair, and flinched when his hands met Beelzebub’s frizzy hair. “That’s why he went upstairs?”

“I guess so.”

Gabriel blinked a few times. “I don’t understand,” he said. “He was so angry. I…I _told_ him I had lied…”

Beelzebub shook their head. They didn’t know how to make sense of it either. “Well,” they said, “who cares? They’ll leave you alone now.”

“You’re right.” Gabriel laughed shakily, leaning over the table. “I’m free. I’m _safe_.”

Beelzebub started to laugh, too. Thank Satan they wouldn’t have to fight archangels. As ready as they had been, they probably wouldn’t have won that one.

“Okay.” Gabriel held out a hand. “There’s no reason to stay like this.”

Beelzebub agreed and took his hand, though they were reluctant to go back to the blood-oath pain in their own body. “I’ll have to sleep that off for days,” they muttered, wincing as their head started to throb again. At least, they hoped it would only take days. Considering that it should have killed Crowley, there was really no way to know.

“Speaking of sleep, I’m going to go home,” said Gabriel, now back in his own body. “Thanks again for, um, letting me hide here.”

Beelzebub wasn’t sure what to say, so they just nodded. So what was going to happen now? They’d just go their separate ways and not talk to each other, like they had after the failed apocalypse? That had been so dull. And, much as they hated admitting it, lonely. “Anytime,” said Beelzebub. “If you want to come for a vizzzit, I mean. You know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” said Gabriel. “You could come into the city, too, if you want. We’ve still got to work out our business plan.”

“That’s right.” The idea of their new company made Beelzebub feel a little better. “I’ll see you, then.”

Gabriel nodded, gave a little wave, and vanished with a small _pop._


	15. Game Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang decides to celebrate. Unfortunately for Crowley, it's difficult to keep his feelings a secret when everyone but Aziraphale knows. Why won't they leave him alone so he can hopelessly pine in peace?

Gabriel rang Aziraphale’s doorbell, his fingers tapping the cakebox tucked sideways under his arm. Crowley had said that desserts were a good way to communicate with Aziraphale, and he wasn’t sure how else to express his gratitude. If he just came up and said “Hey, thanks,” it would probably come across as insincere. He’d never been good at that sort of thing. So cake it was.

The door opened a crack, then wider as Aziraphale recognized him. “Gabriel,” he said, with a smile that looked somewhat forced. “Hello.”

“Hi,” said Gabriel, trying to smile warmly and hoping it worked better than it usually did. “Are you feeling better? Heard you were a little under the weather.” That might not have been completely accurate. Crowley had described Aziraphale’s state as more “completely incapacitated” after whatever panic attack the archangels had caused him. Gabriel had waited an extra day to come by, just to be sure he was in a state to be talking to people.

“Much better, thank you,” said Aziraphale. “What, ah, what brings you…?”

“I wanted to say thanks.” The cake thumped around as Gabriel tilted the box upright and held it out in front of him. “Really. You saved my life.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked a little alarmed as he took the box, turned it right-side-up, and peeked inside. “I appreciate it, Gabriel, but for future reference, that is _not_ the way to carry a cake.”

Oops. “Uh…Yeah, I don’t go buying a lot of cakes. Crowley suggested it.” As nauseating as Crowley’s crush on Aziraphale was, Gabriel had come to the conclusion that the pining was only going to get worse the longer it went on. Plus, if he thought about it, he could actually see the two of them together. He found himself actually rooting for them to make it work. “He’s, um, a good guy,” he said uncertainly. “Crowley is.”

At the mention of Crowley, something sad flickered across Aziraphale’s face. “Yes, he…yes. Um, thank you for the cake.” He started to retreat inside.

“Wait, one more thing.” Gabriel stuck his foot in the door before Aziraphale could shut it. “We were all thinking about maybe getting together for dinner sometime, to celebrate everything working out so well.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s face lit up. “A celebratory party—That does sound fun. There are a number of restaurants I have been wanting to try—Oh, but wait.” His brow furrowed. “Gabriel, you don’t eat.”

Gabriel shrugged, trying not to look visibly queasy at the thought of sitting there watching everyone else eat. “I can still come.”

“There’s no reason for that,” said Aziraphale. “I know how uncomfortable food makes you. We could do something other than dinner.”

Gabriel let out a sigh of relief. When they discussed a celebration, Beelzebub had voted firmly in favor of a meal, while Gabriel voted just as firmly against it, and Crowley said he didn’t mind either way (he didn’t say so, but Gabriel suspected he might have minded more if the tiebreaking vote had not fallen to Aziraphale). “That, actually, would be great.”

“Did you discuss any other activities we could do?” asked Aziraphale. “I suppose we could go to a play, or perhaps a concert, but I’m not sure if you or Beelzebub would enjoy it.”

Gabriel was equally unsure. “We’d have to talk about it some more, I guess. I’m sure we could come up with something.”

“Game night!” Crowley shouted as he barged into Gabriel’s apartment, his arms full of boxes. “Game night, game night…Hey, guys!” He tried to wave to Gabriel and Beelzebub, and nearly dropped the pile of boxes. Setting them down on the nearest flat surface (a triangular side table that didn’t fit conveniently anywhere), he looked around for Aziraphale. Had he not arrived yet? Crowely checked his watch. He was twenty-five minutes late. The angel should be here by now.

“Crowley,” said Gabriel, with a fake-looking smile that Crowley was beginning to suspect was just his normal smile. “You’re, um…chipper.”

“Am I? Getting to live somewhere that isn’t hell does that.” It helped that his best friend was also going to be here, and that they were somehow still friends after everything. “How are you two not thrilled about it?”

“Well, ‘cause you’ll be here too,” said Gabriel, and held up a hand toward Beelzebub for a high-five.

“Funny, Gabe,” said Crowley, with a humorless grin. He was more than used to people making fun of him. That was basically his whole job downstairs, walk around and give people more ammo for their jokes. “Hilarious.”

Beelzebub ignored Gabriel’s high-five. “We’ve been here a while,” they told Crowley. “You get used to it.”

Looking disappointed, Gabriel high-fived himself and muttered something about Beelzebub not being any fun.

“Brought us some game options.” Crowley took a box of thin, white cardboard from the top of the stack and set it aside on a different, more practically-shaped table. “Um.” He made a show of counting the three of them. “Where’s…?”

Beelzebub shrugged. “He said he was coming, last I heard.”

“Right.” Crowley glanced at the white box, hoping Aziraphale hadn’t changed his mind.

“Well, Beelzebub only brought xiangqi, chess, and go, which are all two-person,” said Gabriel.

“And mahjong,” Beelzebub put in.

“Which has way too steep of a learning curve. So those are all out. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Gabriel opened the white box. Forehead wrinkling, he lifted out a chocolate-coated ball on the end of a stick. “Are these game pieces?” he poked the end. “Why are they sticky?”

“Those are snacks,” said Crowley. “Cake pops.”

Gabriel set it down gingerly and edged away. “Why did you bring those? Just for spite?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause everything’s about you.” Crowley waved a hand to send the one Gabriel had touched to the rubbish bin. “You can’t just put it back in after you’ve put your fingers all over it. That’s basic hygiene, Gabe.”

“My hands are extremely clean,” said Gabriel, looking insulted. “Probably cleaner than yours.”

“What, ‘cause I’m a demon?” said Crowley. “That’s an unfair stereotype. Beelzebub, back me up.”

Beelzebub’s mouth was too full of cake for them to answer. The cake pops weren’t even that big. How many had they crammed in at once?

“Okay,” said Crowley. “Fine, you can have Gabriel’s share. But try to leave some? We’re still waiting on a fourth.”

“Right,” said Beelzebub, once they had finally managed to swallow. “I didn’t realize you only brought them for Aziraphale.”

“What? No, they’re for all of us. Aziraphale included.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Just—Brought some games. Here. Look at those.”

Of course, he’d had Aziraphale in mind when he made the cake pops. The angel had even provided the raw material, in the form of a smushed-up cake Gabriel had brought him. _Look at the state of this thing,_ he’d texted, with an accompanying picture, when Crowley checked in to see how he was doing. _Doesn’t it taste the same?_ Crowley had asked, and Aziraphale answered, _Yes, but the presentation is half the joy of eating. This makes it rather difficult to enjoy. I’d throw it out, but I’d feel bad after Gabriel went to the trouble._ After a few quick internet searches, Crowley had typed out, _Can’t have you feeling bad, angel,_ deleted it, and then sent, _Bring it over. I’ll see if I can’t salvage it._

It was a good thing, too, because the scones he had tried to make had been a failure. He’d spent a good hour giving the dough a motivational speech—well, hell’s version of motivation, anyway—but the butter melted while he was talking, and the resulting texture was unacceptable. Cake pops were easier. Hard to go wrong with cake, frosting, and chocolate. Rolling and dipping the balls was a little tedious, but that was good, too. Gave him something to do. When he was idle, he had a dangerous tendency to start texting Aziraphale, which was bound to get on the angel’s nerves if he didn’t control himself.

A polite knock sounded on the door behind him, as if summoned by Crowley’s thoughts, and Gabriel called, “Come in.”

“Hello,” said Aziraphale with a smile, opening the door. And just like that, Crowley’s day got even better. “I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was simply awful.”

“It didn’t have to be,” Crowley pointed out. “I don’t see why you insist on doing things the human way.”

“What’s your excuse for being late, then, Crowley?” Beelzebub asked.

“No excuse,” he said breezily. “I’m fashionably late. It’s not like I missed anything.”

Aziraphale hung his coat at the door and joined the three of them. “I’m so glad to see you’re all doing well,” he said, still smiling. “Oh—Beelzebub, I don’t know if we’ve actually been introduced. I’m Aziraphale. We met once when—”

“I remember,” said Beelzebub lazily. “You stood up to Michael? Argued for Gabriel’zzz life?”

“Ah—” Aziraphale fidgeted with his hands. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Hm.” Beelzebub considered him for a moment, then nodded, apparently making up their mind about something, and looked away.

“Think that means they’re impressed,” said Crowley, a little surprised himself. “Don’t see that every day.” Though who wouldn’t be impressed with what Aziraphale had done? He was so goddamn brave. Just another thing to add to the long list of reasons why he was the best person in creation.

“Oh?” Aziraphale was peeking into the open box of cake pops, his eyebrows just a bit higher than usual. “What’s this? Chocolates?”

Crowley tried to hide the nervous flutter that ran through him. He hoped Aziraphale would like them. He’d tried them himself, but food didn’t taste like much of anything to him. Maybe he should have asked Beelzebub if they were any good.

“These look lovely.” Aziraphale picked one up and twirled it on the stick, admiring the white chocolate drizzle Crowley had added on a whim. He popped it into his mouth, and Crowley held his breath. Azirpahale’s eyes flew open, and then his whole face lit up with delight. A contented hum escaped him. “Goodness—That is simply _divine._ ”

Beelzebub snorted. “Hardly.” When Aziraphale gave them with a quizzical look, they explained, “Crowley brought them.”

Then he turned that smile on Crowley, and his heart did a backflip. “Wickedly good, then.”

“Nghh—Pretty sure that’s an oxymoron,” he pointed out.

Aziraphale took another cake pop, and as he chewed it this time, his face was thoughtful. “The baker who made these must really love their job,” he said when he had swallowed. “It’s remarkable, I can actually taste the—”

Crowley cleared his throat loudly, pretty sure he didn’t want the rest of that sentence to be spoken out loud. “So what d’you guys want to play?”

“What about this one?” Gabriel held up one of the smaller boxes. “I guess we take these cards, go outside, and chuck them at any humans who annoy us.”

“That could be fun,” said Beelzebub. “What if we used something heavier than cards?”

“That’s not what ‘Cards Against Humanity’ is,” said Crowley, snatching the box away from them.

“How do you play, then?” asked Gabriel.

Crowley wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like there was an office board game club in hell. He’d just searched the internet for popular games and went out and bought the ones that sounded interesting.

“We’ll figure it out.” He removed the lid of the box and ripped the shrink-wrap off the cards. “See, it comes with instructions and everything.”

Beelzebub snatched up the instructions and scanned them. “Looks simple enough. Let me see the cards.” Crowley held out the box, and they rifled through a few of them. A grin stretched across their face. “We’re playing this one.”

Aziraphale collected the cards. “Alright, here we go,” he said, flipping up the first one. “When I’m in prison, I’ll have ‘swag’ smuggled in. I’m not sure what that is—”

“Swag, Aziraphale, like swagger,” said Crowley, exasperated.

“Oh, like what you do?”

Gabriel burst out laughing.

“No, he’s got a point,” said Beelzebub. “He just doesn’t have anything to back it up.”

“Yes, _exactly_ like what I do,” said Crowley, grinning once he got over his initial surprise. “Minus what Beelzebub just said.”

Looking amused, Aziraphale set “swag” aside. “When I’m in prison, I’ll have—Oh.” He turned pink. “I’d rather not say this one out loud.”

Gabriel took the card instead, and his whole face scrunched up and pulled back. “German dungeon porn? Why,” he said tossing the card into the air and letting it drift down to the table. “Why are humans like this?”

Aziraphale shot the demons a disapproving look. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe their lot had a fair hand in that sort of thing.”

Crowley scoffed. “Y’think anyone downstairs had that much imagination? The poor demons in the lust department didn’t know what to do with half the weird stuff humans are into.” He nodded at the card in Aziraphale’s hand. “Last one?”

Aziraphale looked down. “When I’m in prison I’ll have a—a nice cup of tea. Er, smuggled in.” He cleared his throat and set the card on the table. “Well. I’m to pick the funniest answer, yes? So I suppose ‘swag’—”

“Seriously?” Crowley interrupted. “C’mon, the tea thing was a bulls-eye.” Calmly sipping tea while sitting in prison was perfectly in character for Aziraphale.

“Well, it—it just seemed a tad obvious. That’s all.”

“Obvious, oh, okay.” Crowley repeated sarcastically. “Myegh. Fine.”

Gabriel cheerfully took the black card and set it in front of him. “More than a tad,” he muttered, just loud enough for Crowley to hear him.

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his shades. “Ssshut it,” he hissed, glancing at Aziraphale to make sure he hadn’t heard. Clearing his throat, he said, a little louder, “Your turn to judge, Gabe.”

“As my New Year’s Resolution, I vow to give up…” Beelzebub gathered together the cards, turned them around, and fanned them out. Their eye twitched. They turned their hand to reveal three cards which all said, _Bees?_

“Who did this?” they demanded, looking around the table. “Gabriel?” Gabriel didn’t say anything, but Beelzebub sighed and threw the cards down onto the table. “You stupid git.”

“Hey, it was funny!”

“Nobody laughed.”

“I did. On the inside.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “How are we to know, then, who won the round? I mean, if nobody saw the cards, and it’s meant to be anonymous…”

“Doesn’t matter. Gabriel loses.” Beelzebub took away one of his black cards, shooting him a glare.

“Worth it,” he said with a shrug.

Aziraphale took the box, looking disappointed. “I had a good card that round.”

“What was it?” Crowley asked.

“Giving birth to the antichrist.”

Crowley snorted with laughter and slapped the edge of the table, and Aziraphale gave a pleased smile. Even Gabriel laughed. “Oh, that is good.”

Beelzebub looked at them without amusement. “You know that’s not what happened.”

“How did he get here, then?” asked Gabriel, trying and failing to stifle his laughter.

“In a basket.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I know what you meant,” said Beelzebub, raising their voice. “There’s some questions I didn’t want to ask. Aziraphale, your turn.”

“Oh! Yes.” He drew a card and cleared his throat. “When Pharaoh—Oh, I think I’d like to skip this one,” he said, putting it aside hurriedly.

“You can’t skip,” said Beelzebub, picking up the card. “‘When Pharaoh became unmoved, Moses called down a plague of blank.’ What’s so bad about this one?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flitted down to the table. “I, er…I had to file those reports,” he said in a small voice. “I’d rather not make a joke of it.”

Crowley remembered the plagues, too. He had heard eyewitness accounts from a few underlings, hid his initial horror, and then sauntered into the council room and asked who he should congratulate. They had all looked back at him blankly. When he learned it was upstairs’ work, he went back to his office and had a small crisis. How much worse would it have been for Aziraphale, knowing he was supposed to be on the good side? “Yeah, we can skip that one.”

“Really?” said Gabriel. “After you made me do ‘what brought the orgy to a grinding halt’?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the card disappeared. “Oh, that’s weird,” he said, pretending to look around for it. “Where’s it gone? Hell if I know. Guess you gotta draw another one, angel.”

Aziraphale shot him a grateful look, then drew another card and read, “Blank: awesome in theory, kind of a mess in practice.”

Crowley looked down at his hand, firmly ignored the “Saying ‘I love you’” card as he had done for the past five rounds, and put down “Throwing a virgin into a volcano.”

“Next up, ‘And what did you bring for show and tell?’” Crowley shuffled the cards, clacked them on the table, and flipped the stack to look at the bottom one. “We have…‘Exactly what you’d expect.’ Okay, nice and vague, a little ominous. ‘Vigorous jazz hands,’ always a solid card. And, last but not least, ‘keep—’” He broke off, looking down at the card in his hand. _Keep it behind your shades, Crowley._

“What is it?” asked Aziraphale.

A flush crept up Crowley’s neck. No—no, he wasn’t really being that obvious, right? Someone just wanted to give him a hard time. “Aha, okay,” he said, grinning. “Y’can’t change what’s on the cards, guys. That’s cheating.” He gave a cough that sounded a lot like “Gabriel.”

“Me?” said Gabriel, looking offended. “Mine was the first one.”

“Then—Wh—” Crowley glanced at Beelzebub. They smirked.

Crowley’s face was definitely tomato-red by now. They knew, too? Oh, hell. Gabriel must have told them. Great to know they both gossiped about him behind his back. Not that he’d never had that happen before, but never about _this._

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s voice brought his attention back to the card in his hand. It was on fire. Muttering a curse, he smothered it in his fist. What he was left with was a partially burnt, crumpled, and fortunately completely unreadable card. He looked at it for a second, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, and then flicked it onto the table. “Y’know, we’ve been playing this game for a while,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice light. “What if we switch to something else?”

“I like this one,” said Beelzebub. “It’s fun.”

“Yeah, well, so’s…” He bent over a little to read the name on one of the boxes they had shoved into a corner. “Taboo. Loads of fun. Way more than this one, I’ve heard.” He took a deep breath and launched himself out of his chair to get the box. “Let’s do that.”

“Time,” Crowley called miserably when the hourglass ran out.

Aziraphale put down the card he was in the middle of explaining and put a hand to his chest as he caught his breath. “How many was that?”

“Six,” said Gabriel, equally downcast. Aziraphale and Beelzebub were surprisingly good at this.

“Twenty-two points,” said Beelzebub with a grin. “We were playing to twenty, so that means we win.”

“Splendid!” Aziraphale shook his fist in celebration. “Very well done on that last round, by the way.”

“Yeah,” said Beelzebub, without offering a complement of their own in return.

Crowley groaned. “Look, since the round’s over, could we switch partners again? Mine’s useless.”

“Me?” said Gabriel. “You’re the one who passed on seven cards in a row.”

“You kept saying the words on the card!”

“Well, it’s not fair if they get to be a team,” said Aziraphale, pointing at Gabriel and Beelzebub. “Too much history. They demolished us last time.”

“I’m not pairing with Crowley,” said Beelzebub.

“And why not?” asked Crowley, scowling. “I could be good at this game, if I had a partner who didn’t claim ignorance about what ice cream is. You’ve been here six thousand years, Gabriel. I got here in August. You should be the one explaining things to me.”

“You just kept saying it was cold. I’ve never eaten it, how would I know that?”

“It has ‘ice’ in the name!”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “You might be good at it if you’d stop mooning over the angel for ten minutes. Seriously.”

Crowley’s heart stopped. There was a faint ringing in his ears. No, Beelzebub couldn’t have just said what he thought he heard. They couldn’t. “Gh—That’s, hah—Nnnno,” he managed to get out. “Nope. Not.”

“What?” said Beelzebub. “We’ve all noticed your little crush, Crowley.”

No, no, this couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t have just had his deepest secret exposed in front of the angel he was in love with. Couldn’t be sitting here right now with his heartbeat thundering in his ears and Aziraphale sitting right across the table, knowing that Crowley—That Crowley—

Gabriel smacked Beelzebub on the arm. “Not _all_ of us, Beelzebub. Jeez.”

He was clutching the edge of the chair, his posture rigid. His arms started to shake. This was like one of his nightmares. Any moment now, Aziraphale would start laughing at him, and remind him that he was a foul beast of hell who had no place with an angel, and that he was a pretty sick demon for even presuming to think about it, and that he never wanted to see or talk to Crowely again. He braced himself, looking at the floor. Any minute now. He wished he’d go ahead and get it over with, so he could wake up.

“Crow—”

The quiet sound of Azirphale’s voice broke him. He squeezed his eyes shut and transported instantly to the kitchen in his own apartment. His ears popped on the way over. A pressure from the sudden journey built in his sinuses, and a different pressure built in his throat. “Fuck,” he choked out. He grabbed the nearest object, a mold he’d used to shape the cake pops, and threw it across the room as hard as he could. Stupid fucking cake pops—What was that for? What was he trying to do with that? Make Aziraphale fall for him over desserts? He inhaled sharply through his nose and rubbed his eyes, which were filling with tears. He’d just wanted to see the angel smile. Was that too much? Too presumptuous? Just to want to make him happy?

Well, he was never seeing that smile again, or any of the rest of the angel for that matter. He’d buy a one-way ticket somewhere far away. Maybe Japan, or Australia. Far, far away from the wreck of humiliation he’d made for himself here. He could stay there by himself for a few centuries, until enough time passed that they could all laugh about it. Hey, remember that time Crowley was desperately in love with Aziraphale? Ha-ha, good thing that’s over. Good thing he had all the time in the world to get over—

Oh, who was he kidding. He wasn’t going to get over this. This was so much worse than a passing crush, worse even than it had been that night at _West Side Story._ “Was that supposed to be a warning?” he called up at the ceiling. He’d known even then that it wouldn’t end well, and he hadn’t been able to keep it from growing. “What the heaven was I supposed to do differently?” No answer. Never any answer. He didn’t know why he bothered anymore.

He snatched a bottle of whiskey out of his liquor cabinet and chugged it straight from the bottle, pausing halfway through to wince heavily before he kept going. He grabbed a bottle of vodka and collapsed onto his black leather sofa, smearing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean it to happen,” he slurred. “I couldn’t help it. S’not fair,” he told the ceiling, and took a swig of vodka. Maybe, if he drank enough, he’d forget what had happened, and everyone else would too. Maybe he’d wake up and find out it was actually a nightmare. At any rate, he didn’t want to be sober right now. He didn’t really want to be anything.

He sprawled out on the couch, downed the rest of the vodka, and settled for being unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I admit it. This whole fic was just an complicated way to have them play Cards Against Humanity so I could pull out the "Bees?" card.


	16. Missed Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns something. Crowley also learns something, but it takes him a little longer.

Aziraphale swallowed the tangled yarn-and-razor-blade mess that his emotions had turned into and tried to keep a straight face. “Beelzebub, that was dreadfully insensitive.”

Beelzebub looked genuinely surprised. They glanced at Gabriel, who was also glaring at them. “Look, it’s not my fault if he hadn’t figured it out by now,” said Beelzebub.

Aziraphale half-wished he hadn’t. Maybe he could have enjoyed their little party more if he wasn’t painfully aware of Crowley’s feelings for Gabriel. He shouldn’t have looked into Crowley’s emotions, he really shouldn’t have. It was pure pettiness that drove him to it. Much as he hated to admit it, part of him had wanted to confirm that Crowley’s attachment to Gabriel was merely a passing fancy. Maybe they had bonded after Crowley switched places with Beelzebub, since Gabriel was the only one he could talk to about it, but that had been only a few days. At most, he had expected to find a teaspoonful of affection. Nothing at all to fret about.

Instead, he’d found Crowley absolutely brimming with love, so much that tears pricked in his eyes and he’d had to make some excuse about dust as he wiped them. What was worse, he could see that Gabriel returned none of it. When Crowley found out, it would destroy him.

“You’ve upset him terribly.” Aziraphale’s voice rose. “Why would you embarrass him like that? And with Gabriel right there—You must know he doesn’t reciprocate—”

“Me?” Gabriel’s forehead wrinkled, and he held up his hands in confusion. “What do I have to do with it?”

Oh dear. Oh dear. Him and his big mouth. He clamped it shut. If Gabriel didn’t know, and thought Beelzebub’s comment was some kind of joke, then Aziraphale had just done exactly what they were admonishing Beelzebub for. “Nothing,” he said, waving a hand. “Absolutely nothing. Don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Beelzebub exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “Which angel did you think I meant?”

“Hang on, you thought it was me?” said Gabriel, his eyebrows rising. “Ha! Oh my God. No.”

But the only other angel in the room was…But that didn’t make sense, right? He’d heard what Crowley said about Gabriel. He and Crowley were good friends, yes, and Crowley had been there to take care of Aziraphale after he returned from heaven, and it was true that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed any “mooning” in Gabriel’s direction, but…

His head felt light. He thought of tea, and a disappearing game card, and cake pops—Which obviously hadn’t been for Gabriel, now that he thought about it. He swallowed, pressing a hand to his heart, remembering all that love he had sensed in Crowley. So much it made him dizzy. Could it be for…?

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and looked at Gabriel. “Are…are you certain?” he asked tentatively. “This isn’t one of your jokes? I mean.” He laughed nervously. “Why would it be me?”

“Why would it be _Gabriel?_ ” said Beelzebub.

Aziraphale gestured vaguely at Gabriel. “Well, look at him.”

“Thanks!” said Gabriel brightly. “But I’m not the one he’s been looking at all afternoon.”

Aziraphale felt short of breath. He wasn’t in much of a state at the moment to process this. He would need some time to figure this out, perhaps jot down a mind map of his thoughts, and then deliberate for a good while on what to do next…

He should tell Crowley, he decided immediately. The way he had reacted—He had looked absolutely miserable. As if he had any reason at all to be embarrassed, when this was the best thing that had ever happened to Aziraphale. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his coat. “I need to go. You two have upset Crowley terribly. You ought to be ashamed.”

Beelzebub’s gaze lowered a bit, and Aziraphale thought for a minute that they might actually feel guilty, but then they reached forward and grabbed a fistful of cake pops. “Go ahead and take the rest of those,” they said, pointing at what remained. “Gabe probably doesn’t want them cluttering up his apartment, anyway.”

“I mean, yeah, what would I do with them?” said Gabriel.

Aziraphale took the box in one unsteady hand and thought of how the cake pops had filled him with warmth, and of how much care must have been put into them for him to be able to taste it, and of the person who had brought them, perhaps even made them himself. “Right. Well—” He swept out the door, too flustered for even a proper goodbye.

He could hardly bear to stand in the elevator for the time it took to descend to the ground. When the doors opened, he practically flew out of the building. A taxi appeared just where he needed it, and he leapt in and told the driver Crowley’s address. “Quick as you can, please,” he added. “I’m in rather a hurry.”

“Yeah, you and everybody else,” said the driver, sounding tired.

Aziraphale swallowed, looking through the front windshield at all the brakelights in front of them. This wouldn’t do at all. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly cars were driving out of their way, clearing a channel for them to zip through. The driver’s eyebrows rose. “Well, that’s something.”

“Yes, it’s a regular miracle,” said Aziraphale impatiently. “Off you go now, if you please. Chop chop.”

The car shot forward a great deal faster than the driver intended it to, and he clung to the steering wheel as if it was going to do anything at all at this point. The taxi was on a path, and nothing short of supernatural intervention (or, more of it) could stop it now.

They reached Crowley’s apartment much faster than any car should have been able to, but still slower than Aziraphale might have liked. There was a low hum in his ears. He had rehearsed the conversation a dozen different ways in his head, and still had no idea what exactly he was going to say, but for heaven’s—for somewhere’s sake, he needed to say _something_. He couldn’t just let Crowley sit in his apartment, alone and heartbroken, not knowing that he had no reason to be.

Aziraphale paused in front of Crowley’s door with no memory of how he had gotten there from the taxi. Maybe he was being presumptuous. Did the pieces really fit the way he’d put them together, or did he just want them to? Or had Beelzebub and Gabriel just made him believe so? Or were they mistaken as well, and Aziraphale was about to make a terrible fool of himself? His heart fluttered in his throat. It was impossible to swallow. If he was wrong about this…

Crowley was on the other side of that door, distraught and with no one there to comfort him. Even if it was Gabriel after all, Aziraphale couldn’t just let him be miserable. Gathering his courage, Aziraphale lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. He knocked again, a little louder. “Crowley?” Still nothing. When he put his ear to the door, he heard nothing inside. “Crowley, are you in there?”

He waited several minutes, and then couldn’t stand it any longer. Miracling the lock open, he cracked the door and peeked inside. Down a hall and through an open doorway, he caught a glimpse of red hair poking over one of the arms of the sofa. “Crowley, it’s me. May I come in?”

Crowley’s hair shifted just a little, but there was no answer. Was he asleep? “I’m coming inside,” said Aziraphale, in a stage whisper. “Do you have any objections?”

He didn’t voice any, so Aziraphale stepped in, shut the door behind him, and removed his shoes. As quietly as he could, he tiptoed over to the couch. “Oh, my dear.”

Crowley was flung across the couch like a ragdoll, his face pressed into the arm of it in a way that looked terribly uncomfortable. There was an empty bottle of vodka on the floor next to it. He shifted in his sleep and murmured something unintelligible. His face was tense.

“You are now having a lovely dream,” Aziraphale said, unable to bear seeing him in this discomfort. “And when you wake, you will remember nothing of this nightmare.” He snapped his fingers.

At once, Crowley’s face relaxed. He rolled over and snuggled into the couch cushions. “Mmn.”

“That’s it, my dear.” Aziraphale looked around for a blanket or something to cover Crowley with, but the demon didn’t seem to own any. Aziraphale could summon one himself, but then Crowley would know at once upon waking that someone else had been in his flat. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him to have entered without an invitation. Crowley might see it as an intrusion. The last thing Aziraphale wanted was to alarm or upset him.

He looked down at Crowley sleeping so soundly, and smiled. The poor dear must have been exhausted. Whatever comfort he had hoped to give Crowley, whatever he had been planning to say, it would have to wait until he woke. A hand hovered over Crowley’s head, about to smooth his hair back from his forehead. Aziraphale pulled it back, whispered, “Sleep well,” and retreated from the apartment.

Crowley awoke slowly, trying to hold onto the dream a little longer. He didn’t remember all of it, but just before he woke he had been driving in a very fast car with Aziraphale, with a mix of Tchaikovsky, Sondheim, and Bowie playing through the speakers. Aziraphale had been yelling at him, but also looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. Crowley wasn’t even trying.

For a blissful moment as Crowley lay on the couch, it almost felt like it had really happened. Aziraphale might get a kick out of it, if he told him. Then he remembered that he could never talk to Aziraphale again.

He cursed, rubbing his eyes and craning to see the clock on the oven. He appeared to have slept for negative two hours. No, wait, he realized, checking his phone. It had been a week and a half. His stomach writhed. In that time, his phone had accumulated eleven voicemails. Most were from Aziraphale. He shouldn’t open them. That would only make him more miserable. There was no point, really.

He was already opening the first one. “Hello,” said Aziraphale’s voice through the phone speaker, and the sound almost caused him physical pain. “This is Aziraphale. I hope you’re well. Um—Listen, I couldn’t help but notice you were rather distressed when you left our, er, gathering yesterday. If, if…if there is anything I can do to help, or perhaps if you want to talk about it—I know sometimes it helps me to talk to a, a, a friend when I’m upset, and I, um…Well, I’m here, that’s all. Call me back, please, when you get the chance.”

Friend. Okay. Crowley clung to the word like a lifeline. He could do friends. Things might not be the same between them, but at least Aziraphale still didn’t mind talking to him. His worst fears assuaged, Crowley drew a shuddering breath and settled in to listen to the rest of the messages.

“Crowley, hello,” said Aziraphale at the beginning of the next message. “It’s Aziraphale. Just calling to check up again. My previous offer still stands, but um, if you get this, I’d really like to know if you’re doing alright. Call me back. Or even a text message would do.”

“Hello, um—Perhaps I should acknowledge the elephant in the room. That is, what Beelzebub said that upset you.” Aziraphale spoke more haltingly on this message, like he was choosing his words very carefully. “I, um, I did hear it. But that’s no reason—If I am interpreting correctly, that is—Oh, dear.” He sighed heavily. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, when you’re ready to talk. Please, just call me.”

At least he had the decency to turn Crowley down over the phone, rather than doing it in a voice message. Not that Crowley didn’t know what was coming. He tapped through the next few messages without looking at the phone, like that would somehow make it easier.

“Crowley, please call me back. Whatever is the matter, I’m not going to judge you. I can promise you that. Just talk to me.”

“Crowley, I, um.” Crowley waited while Aziraphale paused for a full two and a half minutes, and then said, “ _Please_ call me.”

“I swear, Crowley, you will be the death of me. It’s been nearly a week. Gabriel and Beelzebub say they haven’t seen or heard from you since the party, and you won’t answer any of my calls, and—” his voice rose a little. “And this is all starting to feel a bit too familiar, Crowley, if you understand me. Forgive me for worrying, but it’s difficult not to when you won’t answer me, you stupid demon!”

“Hi,” he said much more gently at the start of the next message. “I’m sorry, I was rather cross when I last called you, and I’m afraid I might have said some things a pinch more harshly than I intended. Please believe me when I say I am your friend, and I—I just—I want to know you’re okay. I, um…I know you’re still in your apartment.”

“Crowwwley,” Aziraphale slurred, clearly drunk this time. “I really, _really_ need to talk to you. Could you jus’ pick up. Pick up th’ phone.” A pause of a few seconds. “Pick up the phone. Why are you being so difficult? Oh…fuck this.”

The next message was from Gabriel. “Hi. I don’t really understand why I’m doing this, but if you get these, just call _someone._ Okay, anything else?” he said to someone else in the room. “Alright, well. Hang in there, buddy. You’ll live.”

“Okay, I’ve just been told ‘you’ll live’ is not an appropriate response. Sorry about that. I meant to say, it’ll work itself out. Okay, was that better?” pause. “Oh, it’s still going?”

“Crowley. Hello.” Aziraphale sounded tired. “I don’t know if you’ll hear any of these, or even if you still have your phone with you, but please. Let me know if you’re okay. Nobody has seen you in a week, and I…I’m worried. I do miss you when you’re not around. It’s been rather lonely.” A pause. “Okay. I’ll stop clogging up your phone with these messages, then. I suppose if you haven’t answered any of them by now, you aren’t likely to. So, um…well, I certainly hope this isn’t goodbye.”

Tears were welling in Crowley’s eyes. It was all so…so _Aziraphale_ of him to worry like this. _I do miss you when you’re not around_ echoed in his head, and he struggled to kill the hope it planted in his ribcage. Of course Aziraphale missed him when he wasn’t around. He was like that. He cared so much for everyone. He had gone to heaven and argued with archangels for Gabriel’s sake, and Gabriel was barely even nice to him.

But he kept repeating that he needed to tell Crowley something that he didn’t want to say in a voicemail, which could only mean one thing. Crowley set the phone face down and stared at it, his heart thumping in his ears. He didn’t want to have that conversation. He also couldn’t deny Aziraphale’s pleas to return his calls. He hated hearing that the angel was upset, and hated even more that he was the reason for it. His hands shaking, he picked up the phone and texted him.

_I’m alive alright_

_Happy?_

The phone started to ring almost immediately. His hands spasmed out of control, and he dropped it, looked gingerly at it on the floor, and then leaned over and hung up. Aziraphale texted him a moment later.

_Please answer your phone, Crowley._

He really must be in a state if he wasn’t addressing and signing each of his texts like a miniature letter. The phone started to ring again. Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s name for one full iteration of his “Bohemian Rhapsody” ringtone, then drew a deep breath and answered the call. “What?” he said, before Aziraphale could get out a word. “ _What?_ You said you had something to say, so say it.”

It came out quite a bit harsher than he had intended. “Oh,” said Aziraphale in a small voice. “Crowley, I…I’ve been calling you for ten days. Why didn’t you answer?”

Crowley kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Been asleep.”

“For so long? Is that entirely healthy?”

“Dunno. What’d you wanna say? Get it over with.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, so gently that Crowley’s whole chest almost collapsed on itself. “I, um…well, you had expressed a wish to see more shows on Broadway, now that you can live on Earth. And, er, I wondered if you would want to…to do that sometime. We could get dinner and then go, if, if, if you’re agreeable?”

Oh, no. This was even worse. Aziraphale didn’t want to turn Crowley down over the phone, he wanted to do it in person, as nicely as possible, after taking him out to dinner and a musical. “What’s the show this time?” he asked bitterly before he could stop himself. “ _Tristan und Isolde_? Or some other romantic tragedy?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, his voice breaking a little. “That…that’s an opera, Crowley. I thought you might pick the show.”

Crowley tried to swallow. “You don’t have to do this, Aziraphale,” he said, aiming for a breezy tone and missing the mark by a wide margin.

“Well, I know, but—”

“Don’t, y’know, don’t bother being nice about it. Letting me down gently.” He swallowed and took a breath. “Just chuck me out the bloody window and get it over with. S’not like I haven’t fallen before.”

“That’s not what I’m doing, my dear.”

 _Your what._ Crowley froze. His throat was dry. If Aziraphale wasn’t turning him down, then what…what…

“I’d gladly go to any show with you,” said Aziraphale. “Even…even _The Sound of Music,_ if you wish. Although perhaps not, er, _West Side Story._ That was a rather unfortunate choice, in hindsight. I’m terribly sorry for it.”

Very, very slowly, Crowley’s mind formed a new understanding of the situation. He had never expected this. He’d never even let himself hope for this. Even now, he almost didn’t dare.

“That is, only if you want to go,” said Aziraphale. He waited a moment. “Crowley? Are you still there?”

“Myeah,” said Crowley. His heart was beating very fast. He needed to be sure. Saying it out loud was going to make him sound like an idiot, but it was much too late for that. “Aziraphale, are you…are you asking me out?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“ _Oh_.” Crowley sank forward, putting his head in one hand. He felt like he might float up off the floor if he wasn’t careful. Like his heart might just up and explode. He tried to speak, but only vague noises came out.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

There was that endearment again, proving he hadn’t imagined the first one. “Ngk,” he choked. “Fine. Need a minute.”

Aziraphale wanted to go out with him. Enough to actually ask for it. Enough that he had gone to the trouble of calling him nine times while he was asleep (and convinced Gabriel to call him twice, for some reason). That…that wasn’t something people did just to be polite. Aziraphale wasn’t humoring him. He _wanted_ to go out with Crowley, knowing what a lovesick idiot he had been over him. Aziraphale…might feel, just a little bit, the same way.

“A-are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “You do know I’m a demon?”

“I know you are _Crowley_ ,” said Aziraphale. “You are my dearest friend, and there is nobody I would rather spend an evening with.”

His eyes felt wet. He shut them, holding his breath to keep himself from sobbing audibly. Satan, what a mess he was.

“If you would like to, that is,” Aziraphale added.

“If—Wgh—Yes,” he managed to choke out. “Yes. Angel. Absolutely, I would.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Crowley could hear that bright smile in his voice. He wished he could see it, as well. And it was because of _him._

“I can—I can look up shows,” he stuttered. “See what’s on tonight. If that’s not—Is that too soon?”

“Not at all,” said Aziraphale. “You may have slept through it, but it _has_ been over a week.”

“Oh. Right.” He drew a deep breath, guilt tugging at him. “I keep doing that. Disappearing. M’sorry.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Azirpahale. “You’d had an eventful couple of days. I’m sure you needed your rest.”

“No, it’s not all right,” said Crowley. After all the trouble he’d caused Aziraphale recently, driving him up the wall with questions that Crowley couldn’t safely answer, taking a nap so long that Aziraphale needed to call eleven times, faking his own death and making the angel cry… “I keep—I keep hurting you.”

The line was quiet for a moment. Crowley rubbed his thumbnail into the upholstery. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up. If Aziraphale remembered all that, and changed his mind—Well, but, no, it was better to get that over with now, wasn’t it? Spare him any future trouble on the demon’s account. He was, after all, a demon.

“Only when you left,” said Aziraphale quietly.

Crowley swallowed, leaning forward and pressing his knuckles to his mouth. “Well. M’not going anywhere now, angel.” It took him all of five seconds to realize how clingy and creepy that sounded. “I mean—If you want. Only if you want.”

“I do,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley’s throat closed up. Did he really? Could he? How was any of this happening? “There was…something else I wanted to ask, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart jumped a little, and he was terrified that it would be some variation on, _You didn’t actually believe that, did you?_ and then laughter would fill his apartment and he would wake up on his couch just as miserable as before. “Y-yes?”

“Those little sweets you brought to the party,” said Aziraphale. “Did you make those yourself?”

Oh. Crowley swallowed, remembering how Aziraphale had commented on them when he’d tried them. _I can actually taste the—_

“Ssssort of,” he admitted.

“I thought perhaps you did.” Aziraphale’s voice was unbearably soft. “They were—Crowley, they were so lovely.”

“Uh—Gabe—Gabriel provided the ingredients,” Crowley stuttered, trying to deflect the complement.

“Yes, I did recognize the flavor. But I didn’t enjoy that cake nearly so much.” Aziraphale paused. “Would…would you, perhaps, make them again sometime?”

He’d make Aziraphale more bloody cake pops than he could ever eat, if he thought himself capable of that feat. He could make other things too, scones and petit-fours and tarts, maybe even a proper croissant once he’d had enough practice. That was, if Aziraphale would let him hang around long enough to try. Crowley’s current baking prowess could hardly measure up to that of all the bakeries in New York. “Ngk—You can get them at Starbucks for like two bucks each, Aziraphale.”

“Yes, I know,” said Aziraphale. “I tried those. They weren’t the same.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes, grateful at least that Aziraphale had not spelled out exactly why they were different. This was all happening so fast, and actually hearing the thing Aziraphale could apparently sense in baked goods out loud might be too much for him at the moment. He drew a deep breath. “Are you just exploiting me for sweets, Aziraphale?”

“Wh—I am not!” Aziraphale gasped in horror. “Certainly not, I cannot believe you would think me such a—”

“I feel so _used,_ ” said Crowley, in an exaggerated tone of mock insult.

Aziraphale sighed, catching onto the joke. “Crowley.”

Crowley melted at the fondness in his voice. “F’course I’ll make more, if you want. Anytime.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “But I hope you know that I care for you very much, independent of any baking that you do.”

Crowley had to take a moment to swallow his emotions. He couldn’t think of anything to follow that up with. “Hgh,” he said. “Pick you up tonight. Text you the time?”

“Certainly. I’ll let you know the restaurant.”

“Good. See you then, angel.”

“I look forward to it very much.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

He waited a few seconds, and then hung up, because one of them had to, and then dropped the phone onto the couch and slumped back in disbelief. A gigantic, stupid grin spread across his face. He had a date. A date with Aziraphale. The best angel in the world had asked him on a date. He was going to go out with Aziraphale. He, Crowley, was going on a date with his angel.

Um, well. Obviously Aziraphale wasn’t _his—_ he was his own person, and all that, and one date didn’t mean a relationship—but maybe he could be, someday. And vice versa. Crowley shivered. The idea of _being Aziraphale’s_ —

He was getting distracted. What was he doing sitting around? He had a date to get ready for. He sprang off the couch and went to the washroom to get himself cleaned up. As he brushed his teeth, he pulled up the browser on his phone with his free hand and searched the internet to find out what musicals were showing tonight that were not _The Sound of Music,_ and decidedly not _West Side Story._ Something cheerful. Something with a happy ending.

Both of them, Crowley thought, deserved a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least it took less than six thousand years this time around.
> 
> (There is now [a follow-up fic of their date](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348714) which happens between this chapter and the next)


	17. Angel Investors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more minor shenanigan for the road.

Beelzebub slumped backwards over the bean bag chair. It had been a chair with more structure, until they changed it during their last visit to Gabriel’s apartment, and for once he hadn’t bothered changing it back. “Finally gave up, did you?” they had smirked upon entering. Gabriel had shrugged and said that, since the shade of purple that Beelzebub picked actually matched the décor for once, and they were just going to make another one next time anyway, he’d figured he might as well keep it.

So now Beelzebub had a permanent chair in Gabriel’s apartment, which was touching until they remembered that they had only used bean bag chairs in the first place to annoy Gabriel, and that that was the only reason they put up with how uncomfortable they were. Now they had to sit in the damn thing every time they came for a visit, and Gabriel didn’t even bat an eye. Which reminded them, it was about time they got a second chair for their cabin. Gabriel still had to conjure one himself every time he dropped by.

“Are they still coming?” Beelzebub asked, glancing at the clock. “They’re ten minutes late.”

“Yeah, but we’re talking about Crowley,” Gabriel pointed out, glancing at Beelzebub. “Don’t sit like that. You’ll wrinkle the suit.”

Ignoring him, Beelzebub flopped over onto their stomach to wrinkle the front as well. It seemed like half the reason Gabriel had wanted to start a business together was so he had an excuse to dress up in a suit, and the other half was so that he could convince Beelzebub to do the same. When he found out that the demon didn’t own a suit, he dragged them to his tailor to have a new one made. The charcoal-gray ensemble actually turned out better than Beelzebub had expected. At least Gabriel hadn’t put them in pastels. He had briefly tried to suggest a powder-blue tie to go with it, but Beelzebub gave him a look and he quickly found a maroon one instead.

“I hope they’re still coming,” Gabriel muttered, with a glance at the clock. “Do you think I should call and ask?”

“I still think this is all unnecessary,” said Beelzebub. “We can miracle up as much money as we want. We don’t actually need investors.”

“We do,” said Gabriel. “Start-ups have investors. And it isn’t money, it’s _capital._ ”

“Oh, my mistake. We can miracle up as much _capital_ as we want.”

Gabriel frowned, but before he could shoot back a reply, someone knocked at the door. “Finally,” Gabriel muttered. He glanced at Beelzebub, frowned, and waved a hand to miracle the wrinkles out of their jacket. “Try to be professional, demon.”

Beelzebub got to their feet. “I thought you were handling the business side.”

“Well, yes, but this is supposed to be an equal partnership. Try not to sabotage my hard work, would you?”

They shrugged. “No promises. Six thousand years makes for one hell of a habit.”

Gabriel straightened his tie, plastered on a businesslike smile, and opened the door. “Hey, guys!” he greeted Crowley and Aziraphale. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure, Gabe,” said Crowley as he walked inside, hand-in-hand with Aziraphale. “Anything for the two people who accidentally helped us get together.”

“And saved your life,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Oh, yeah, that too.” Crowley held up both their hands, grinning. “Did I mention we’re together now?”

“About time,” said Beelzebub. Aziraphale had moped for over a week when Crowley wouldn’t call him back, and somehow Beelzebub and Gabriel were the ones who had to deal with it. Beelzebub had toyed with the idea of showing up at Crowley’s apartment and glaring at him until he just talked to Aziraphale like an adult. The only reason they hadn’t was because of what had happened last time they had accidentally gotten involved. The last thing any of them needed was more drama.

Gabriel gave a cough which sounded suspiciously like the word “professional.” Beelzebub shot him a look, wondering if professionalism was actually supposed to mean silence. “That’s great, you guys,” said Gabriel, with the exact same smile. “Speaking of—You know I’m happy for you two, and everything, but would you mind, just…” he gestured to indicate a low level of something. “…Keeping the PDA to a minimum, while you’re here?”

“The what?” Aziraphale asked.

“Personal digital assistant,” Crowley explained. “I guess he wants us to get rid of our phones, or something.”

“Oh, I see.”

“No—” Gabriel rubbed his eyes.

“Just don’t start making out in front of us,” Beelzebub translated. They pointed at a door. “There’s a room right there, if—”

“ _Not_ in my bedroom,” Gabriel hissed.

Aziraphale looked extraordinarily amused. “I’m sorry, you think we’re going to do what?”

“You are holding hands right now,” Gabriel pointed out, in a tone that suggested it was basically the same thing.

They both looked down at the offending appendages. “Gosh, he’s right,” said Crowley. “Look at that, angel. That’s our _hands_.”

“Dear me. How scandalous.”

“That’s positively shameless, that is.”

“Just sit down,” Beelzebub interrupted, waving at the chairs Gabriel had set up. “Then we can start the meeting.”

“Meeting?” said Aziraphale. “I thought this was a social gathering.”

Beelzebub raised their eyebrows at Gabriel, who looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, yeah,” he said, plastering on another smile. “But, you know, business before pleasure, right?”

Crowley sat down and pointed at the easel Gabriel had set up in front of the chairs. It was covered with a black cloth. “What’s that?”

“Great question!” said Gabriel. “Beelzebub and I invited you here today because—in addition to wanting to see our good friends, of course—we wanted to talk to you about an exciting investment opportunity.”

Beelzebub whisked the cloth off the easel. Underneath was a piece of foamboard printed with a stylized image of a fly on a honeycomb. Underneath, the words “Flycatcher Honey” were printed in yellow-gold.

“Oh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands. “That looks splendid. Who did the logo?”

“I did,” said Gabriel proudly. “I picked out the font, too.”

The font discussion had taken the better part of a day. Gabriel had patently refused to use Comic Sans, regardless of how all the posters of hell were stylized, or how lighthearted and fun it was. Beelzebub still didn’t know whether he could tell they had been kidding.

“It is a nice font,” said Aziraphale encouragingly. “Wouldn’t you say, Crowley?”

“I was just about to say I liked the font,” said Crowley. “Great work, you two. Really well done.”

“You’ve only seen the name and the logo,” said Gabriel. “We made charts—”

“So you’re in?” Beelzebub interrupted. There didn’t seem to be much point in dragging this meeting on any longer. Plus, most of their charts were just unlabeled axes with lines pointing up and to the right.

“You want _us_ to invest?” Aziraphale looked delighted with the concept. “Why, how grand. I’ve never invested in a company before. And it is such a snazzy logo.”

“Tons of snazz, yeah,” said Crowley. “I’m sold.”

“Great.” Beelzebub glanced at Gabriel, who looked put out. They would have thought he’d be glad he wouldn’t have to give the whole presentation. Though, come to think of it, he had put quite a bit of work into it. He’d even stayed up half the night working out a mission statement. “Actually, are you sure?” they said. “We wouldn’t want you to rush into a decision before you have all the information.”

“Nah,” said Crowley. “That isn’t really—”

“Oh, but we want to make sure you’re fully on board,” said Gabriel, jumping on the opportunity. “You need to know what you’re investing in, after all.”

“Isn’t it just Beelzebub’s hives?” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, no.” Gabriel’s tone suggested that Aziraphale had fallen right into his trap. “Flycatcher is so much more than that.” He removed the first piece of foamboard to reveal another one so dense with words and diagrams that it was completely unreadable. “Beelzebub will be overseeing production, yes, but in our first year we plan to expand our production capacity…”

Beelzebub’s presence hardly seemed necessary at this point, so they slunk off to the corner. They had seen Gabriel rehearse the pitch so many times that they knew it practically by heart. As it went on, Gabriel’s hand gestures grew more expansive and less meaningful, which meant he was really getting into it. Beelzebub hadn’t seen him this pumped since the last time he competed in the Olympics. Crowley and Aziraphale were only a tangential part of this, really.

To their credit, the pair sat through the pitch without complaint, though it looked like they were paying more attention to each other than to Gabriel’s business plan. At least they looked happy together. As long as they were happy, Gabriel wouldn’t feel obligated to try cheering them up, and Beelzebub wouldn’t get pulled into it. Gabriel might not have been much of an angel anymore, but buried deep down he did have some decent instincts. He might not be a particularly nice person, but he was a good friend. The evidence of that was right outside Beelzebub’s cabin, buzzing around the front three hives.

At the end of the presentation, Crowley and Aziraphale applauded. “Very impressive,” said Crowley. “I understood almost none of that.”

“I think that’s just how business works, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“Well, yeah. I think buzzwords were one of ours.”

“Oh. Are you quite certain?”

Gabriel clapped his hands together to regain their attention. “So,” he said expectantly.

“Hm? Oh, yes, certainly I’d like to invest,” said Aziraphale. “This is all very exciting.”

“Same here,” said Crowley, waving a hand. “I’m all in.”

“I think that’s poker,” said Aziraphale in a hushed voice.

“Close enough. Money’s involved, right?”

Behind them, Beelzebub went to the kitchen and got out four glasses, which they set on Gabriel’s too-tall table next to the jug of mead they had brought. “Let’s toast, then,” they said, pulling the cork from the jug and starting to fill them.

“Excellent plan,” said Crowley, looking over. “What is that? Cider?”

“Mead.”

Crowley and Aziraphale both announced that they had never tried mead before, and ventured over to appraise the drink’s color, viscosity, and aroma the way one might have done with a wine. While Crowley held one glass up to the light, and Aziraphale chastised him about being careful not to spill it, Beelzebub filled their own glass and left the fourth one empty for Gabriel.

He was practically jumping with excitement as he picked up the empty glass. “We have investors,” he said in a hushed voice, with a smile that anyone other than Beelzebub might have thought was fake. “We are in _business,_ Beelzebub!”

“Our investors are right there,” Beelzebub said, nodding at Aziraphale and Crowley, who were laughing about some inside joke. “Try to contain yourself. I thought we were being professional.”

Gabriel shot him a frown, but didn’t say anything before he turned to Aziraphale and Crowley. “A toast,” he said, raising the empty glass. “To—”

“Bees?” Crowley suggested.

“Oh, yes,” Azirpahale put in. “The unsung heroes. To the bees!”

“They’re bees. There’s nothing heroic about them,” said Beelzebub. Everyone else looked at them and raising their glasses expectantly. Beelzebub scowled and gave in to peer pressure. “Fine. To the bees.”

Four glasses clinked together, and everyone but Gabriel drank. “You know,” said Aziraphale, “I don’t think me or Crowley ever properly thanked you two for saving the Earth. It’s thanks to you that we’re able to live here…” he gave Crowley a saccharine smile. “Happily ever after, as it were.”

Crowley turned red and muttered something that didn’t sound like a word.

“What can I say?” said Gabriel, with false modesty. “We do good work.”

“My job was to do bad work,” said Beelzebub. “And we both got fired.”

“We took our talents elsewhere,” Gabriel corrected.

Beelzebub snorted in surprise and took a sip of mead. It hadn’t turned out bad, for a first attempt. Maybe they could improve the recipe by adding other flavors. It might go well with berries. After some experimentation, they might even be able to expand Flycatcher’s line of products.

Aziraphale looked at the two of them curiously. “I have been wondering, just how did that alliance come about? Until recently, a friendship between an angel and a demon was quite unprecedented.”

Beelzebub raised an eyebrow just a hair, wondering if they should point out something else in the room which was even more unprecedented. They exchanged a glance with Gabriel, who seemed to be thinking the same thing, and decided against it.

“Well, we weren’t friends for a long time,” Gabriel started. “We were always enemies.”

Crowley grinned. “Enemies to business partners! Go on.”

Beelzebub frowned. How were they supposed to explain their relationship? The six-thousand-year-old rivalry that accidentally became personal? All those times they had humiliated each other? That day after the antichrist was delivered, when Beelzebub gave up on everything and tried to shoot Gabriel from where they were lying in a pile of dead bees?

They glanced at Gabriel, who looked equally unsure. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “No, I…I think we all deserve better than to have to listen to that. It’s not very interesting, anyway.”

“Oh, c’mon,” said Crowley. “I know for a fact you two killed each other at some point.”

“I never killed Beelzebub,” said Gabriel, and then hurriedly added, “Not that I couldn’t have—We had an agreement!”

“We’re here now.” Beelzebub paused to take a sip of mead. “That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s right,” said Gabriel, pointing at them. “That’s the important thing. Everything turned out well, right?”

It certainly had, better than any of them could have reasonably expected. Beelzebub hadn’t even expected to survive after Armageddon, much less thrive. Not only did they still have the bees, they had twice as many as before. And they were starting a brand-new company, and they could hang out with Gabriel whenever they wanted—

Beelzebub started. They didn’t think they’d ever been this happy before.

The mead jolted in their hand, and nearly spilled. They covered the movement with a cough, still trying to process this development. This wasn’t just a spike of dopamine from eating something sugary, or the temporary satisfaction of a particularly well-executed thwarting. They were happy in a way that might last. They hadn’t even known that was an option for them.

Gabriel nudged them and shot them a questioning look. “You all right, demon?”

They shot him an irritated look for calling attention to it. Nobody else needed to know the revelation they had just had. “Fine,” they said, which was a gross understatement. “Let’zzz, um. Another toast.” They raised their glass, but couldn’t think of anything specific to toast to.

“To a happy retirement,” said Aziraphale, smiling.

“Couldn’t’ve said it better,” said Crowley. “Happy retirement for all of us.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel glanced at Beelzebub. “All of us.”

Beelzebub didn’t say anything, but clinked glasses with the rest of them. They had nothing to add. The others had pretty much covered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who kept reading this, all, I dunno, three(?) of you. I wrote this to have fun (and I did have so much fun, possibly too much), but it's always more enjoyable when I can read the reactions to new chapters. I hope it was at least half as much fun to read as it was to write! Thank you for making the writing of this little fic (that turned into a much bigger fic, oops) such a blast!


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